A/N: For some reason this chapter seemed to take forever to write, and not just because I kept having to break off to check how much a fire engine could carry or how much a pound was worth in 1974. (Also- the Six Nations was the Five Nations back then, and there isn't technically a final in either of them, according to the internet. But ssh, just go with it!) Ah well, it's done now, though there may still be some typos- I'm kind of tired right now. Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter Two- Edinburgh

It was still summer, still 1974, and a month and a half after her appointment Martha Crieff was still playing captain. Not that Douglas was worried. If the last month had proven anything, it was that Martha was just as incompetent as Douglas had said she would be, if not worse. Oh, she had good theoretical knowledge, far better than his or any other pilot he had met; he wasn't ashamed to admit it. But she had no instinct for it, no talent; in the air, gut reactions were as important as book learning any day, and Martha's gut seemed entirely stationary. Six weeks and he had yet to see a quiver out of it; she relied on the manuals, not her common sense, to dictate how she reacted to a situation, but in such a flustered way that it was usually misapplied or too late. Douglas' bruised ego had been somewhat soothed- and vindictively satisfied- to discover she was a terrible pilot; nervous, too fixated on proving herself, and prone to low-level panic. She had yet to complete a successfully smooth take off and when they had come across a tricky landing in a cross wind on a small hop over to Jersey, she had insisted on taking it only to need him to talk her through it. He was a much better pilot than she was. Of course.

If she had been his first officer, he might have gone easy on her. It was, after all, her first flying job and he doubted he had been much better first time out. He would have taken her under his wing, taught her the tricks of the trade, helped her to relax- if that was even possible for her. If she had even been a little bit apologetic about being the captain, he might have generously forgiven and advised her. The problem was, Martha was not apologetic, not in the slightest. She seemed to feel she had been divinely ordained for the task of being his captain and that she had every right to be there. He suspected her arrogance was, at heart, a crippling lack of self-confidence in herself and her abilities, but the furious need to prove herself capable was irritating in the extreme, and unhelpful. She was constantly looking to assert her authority, no matter how often it was undermined by her ridiculous mistakes. She was attempting to keep him cowed, but Douglas was not going to bow to it.

On the brighter side, he suspected Martha wasn't going to be around much longer, he was sure of it. Carolyn was only keeping her on out of stubbornness, she couldn't seriously think Martha was a good asset for MJN. And Douglas wasn't even having to do anything to try and drive her out; Martha could mess things up all on her own. Every flight he would sit back, relax, and see what cock up Captain Crieff would entertain him with next. Remarkably, she hadn't had one yet that flight, but it surely couldn't be far away.

Right on cue, Arthur entered the flight deck, looking close to panic himself.

"Douglas," He said. "I think- well, I was up on the roof and I saw her and she did- Martha just slapped Mr Birling!"

Ah. There it was.

Ooooooooooooo

For once, Douglas arrived early at the airfield. He usually had a fairly liberal view of what counted as 'on time', deciding that time was an abstract concept and therefore at least as flexible as Carolyn's tolerance of his audacity. He had spent his time at MJN working out how late he could be without getting the proverbial pink slip, and had now worked it out into a perfect routine. Not today though. Today Carolyn had told them all to be at Fitton airfield at nine, and here he was at five to. Wouldn't Martha be pleased? Douglas actually bothered to punch his time card that day, the first time in a long while it wouldn't show him arriving late. Actually, it seemed like it had been more or less a year since he had last done it. But of course, he was always early on this day every year- today was the day of the Five Nations Rugby Final; today was Birling Day.

He didn't quite understand why Mr Birling wanted to head off so early when the match wasn't until the afternoon and was only in Edinburgh, but he wouldn't complain, it simply meant there was more chance of getting tips. Assuming that neither of his new esteemed colleagues messed it up for him, of which he held out little hope.

Arthur was a risk. He knew about Mr Birling and he was affable enough, people seemed to like the lad, but he was so young and clumsy and didn't quite know what he was doing yet. Douglas was a little bit worried he would upset things somehow. Then there was Martha, who did not know about Mr Birling's excellent tips and Douglas didn't know whether or not to tell her. He wasn't spiteful and however irritating his 'captain' was, she wasn't deliberately so. Besides, it was of mutual benefit. If Martha was working to keep Mr Birling happy too, the tips would be higher for all of them.

On the other hand, she was competition. If Mr Birling had a couple of thousand pounds to use in tips, it was better to split it between fewer people. Anyway, he was sure Martha would find something in the rules that said they shouldn't accept large tips; he could practically hear the words bribery and corruption on her pursed lips. Or perhaps, if she missed out, it would teach her not to be such a stickler. Better not to tell her if he could avoid it, then, if Arthur hadn't already let the cat out of the bag. Otherwise, he would follow Douglas' lead, he always did. Arthur saw him as a role model, Douglas rather thought. It was nice to have someone looking up to you, even if it was only Arthur, who thought everyone was brilliant.

Arthur was waiting for him as he came out of the Airfield reception, carrying, of all things, a bucket in each hand.

"Hi Douglas!" He said, cheery as always. The boy was still thrilled that he was allowed to call them by their first names, and said them as much as possible. "You're here early! Well, early for you."

"But of course. After all, it is Birling Day. Still, I don't see why the old boy wanted us so early."

"Oh." Arthur said. "It's not Mr Birling, it's mum. She wants us to give Gerti a wash before we go get him. Martha sent me to fill some buckets from the standpipe."

"What? No! Why can't she get it cleaned properly?"

"Because last time they scratched the paint." Arthur said. "Come on Douglas, cheer up! It'll be fun!"

"Arthur, in what possible way will this be fun?"

"Well, it'll be like washing a car, but it's a plane!"

"I see. No."

"No?"

"No, I'm not doing it."

"Oh." Arthur said, chewing his lip nervously. "Okay. But I think mum wants you to. And Mr Birling might be happier in a clean plane."

This much was true. Poor old Gerti was looking distinctly grey about the gills.

"Still." Douglas said. "This is a joke. We're not paid to wash her plane."

"But we can make it fun! Skip said I can bring out my Roberts radio from the office, and the weather's nice, and maybe we can, you know, make it a game. Like when they have to clean up on Mary Poppins."

Douglas groaned. He didn't care what the consequences were, if anyone started singing at him, he was out of there. He consoled himself that Martha would not be any happier with the situation than he was, she would undoubtedly complain that it was beneath her dignity as a captain, it was her favourite excuse whenever she wouldn't play a word game because she couldn't win. He could leave the complaints to her; if she won, then he wouldn't have to do it either, and if Carolyn won, at least he didn't lose any brownie points for making a fuss. Martha did have her uses sometimes.

To his surprise however, his 'captain' seemed in unusually good spirits, waiting next to Gerti with a smile on her face as she smoked her morning cigarette. She had already changed into casual clothes for the task, which for Martha meant jeans and a patterned blouse. Goodness forgive that she should ever be seen in a skirt. She had worn one that first day when she'd arrived, but with thick tights on, and ever since, he had only ever seen her in long trousers. She even wore trousers with her uniform and nobody but Douglas seemed to realise how ridiculous it made her look. The woman was a tragedy. She blew smoke for the last time as she saw them coming then ground the cigarette out with her sandal, turning to greet them.

"Oh, Douglas, there you are." She said, practically beaming. She had never before been so pleased to see him. Perhaps he would be on time more often. "Arthur, did you bring the water?"

"Yes Skip!"

"Excellent."

The two of them, Douglas decided, were as bad as each other.

"You can't seriously be alright with this, Martha. What about your dignity as a captain?"

"There's nothing dignified in flying a dirty plane." She said. "And they never make a proper job of cleaning it. At least this way I can make sure it's done properly." She patted the side of the plane affectionately. Ah. The control freak rode again. "Anyway," She said, putting her hands on her hips in a pose she fancied was authoritative but really just made her look like a pouting child. "It might be fun. If nothing else, it'll be satisfying when we're done."

Douglas rolled his eyes. "Goody." She'd taken a bucket and sponge from Arthur and was trying to hand it off to him, so he finally gave in, removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves before accepting with a heavy sigh.

"Good." Martha said. "Now, Arthur, come and hold this step ladder so I can get up onto the roof."

"I'll do it." Douglas said. At least the jeans she was wearing were tight. When she moved, too, her blouse would rise up just slightly. Douglas hadn't made his mind up about the curve of her back yet, let alone her backside, but he would have liked the chance to.

"Not you." She said. "Arthur, come on."

"Really, Martha, you'd be better off sending Arthur up there. It doesn't look far but it's not an easy climb from the wing to the roof. There's nothing to grab onto."

Martha frowned at him and before anyone could stop her, she bolted up the step ladder and onto the wing. There wasn't time to be worried about her falling, she barely paused to regain her balance before with a step and a stretch and a shimmy she pulled herself onto the roof, making it look as easy as walking.

"When I was a kid," She grinned down at him. "The boys used to say I couldn't climb trees. I proved them wrong. So don't say I can't climb an aeroplane."

Clearly she could climb an aeroplane. Douglas had a stray thought which noted that there was something surprisingly sexy about the way she'd done it, too. He decided to put it down to the fact that Martha hadn't screwed up for once and, still not quite liking what it seemed to say about him, moved one of the stepladders and began to moodily clean the tail as Martha lay down flat on the roof, trying to reach the bucket of soapy water Arthur was holding up to her.

Needless to say, the bucket eventually ended up on the roof, but empty of water, which was all over Arthur. Douglas laughed and Martha irritably threw a sponge at him, and somehow, the whole thing turned into a water fight which Douglas couldn't quite gauge the spirit of. In some ways, it was just a bit of harmless summer fun.

In others, it was a vicious fight to the death, in which not very much plane got cleaned. The match was declared a stalemate when Carolyn arrived and shouted at them, but secretly Douglas knew he had won. He was far more accurate than both Martha and Arthur, and when he had removed and discarded his sodden shirt, Martha had turned a very interesting shade of red, in the way that only those blessed as gingers can; which made them even for the climbing incident earlier. Yes, the victory was undoubtedly his.

The only problem was, now they only had a few minutes to get the plane absolutely spick and span. Martha got up on the roof again and furiously started cleaning it, but Douglas had a better idea and went to have a word with the fire crew. He was back before the 'captain' had even noticed he was gone.

"Captain." Douglas called. "Might I make a suggestion?"

"I'd rather you got a bucket." Martha replied, scowling down at him.

"I have got a bucket, in a manner of speaking." Douglas answered. "One that holds three hundred gallons, is mounted onto a fire engine, and is attached to a high pressure hose."

"Oh!" For a moment Martha seemed quite pleased with his idea, but then she remembered the rules. "And what would we do if there was a fire and we had emptied the tank?"

"And what will you do, Captain, if Carolyn sees that Gerti is still filthy with Mr Birling on the way? Anyway, Phil owes me a favour, a few gallons is the least he can do."

"Alright." Martha said, chewing her lip as was her habit whenever she agreed to something she wasn't sure she should. She dropped down onto the wing, only to discover her escape blocked by the fact that at some point Arthur had moved the step ladder. She looked at the drop, which was a matter of just seven feet or so, but far enough when you didn't have many feet to spare. Douglas relented.

"Sit on the edge." He said. "I'll lift you."

Martha frowned but finally nodded, sitting on the edge where he could just about reach to grab her round the hips. He swung her down, noting how light she was. She staggered and he steadied her, his hands still on her bony waist, her hands lingering on his bare shoulders. He realised suddenly that this was the first time they'd had any physical contact beyond a handshake or an occasional shoulder pat or jocular jostling of the elbows. It was somehow pleasing, aesthetically at least. He felt that she looked good, that they looked good standing there together.

He blamed drinking before he came to work. It helped him keep his cock-sure confidence, yes, but it made his judgement go right out of the window; if he could still have any sort of the slightest lust for this arrogant, pasty-skinned, slip of a ginger girl, he dreaded to think what sort of state he was in.

"I don't see what's so special about this Mr Birling anyway." Martha grumbled, but Douglas suspected she was just saying it to have something to say, and did not reply.

Ooooooooooooo

"No, no, no, no, absolutely not, no!" This was Martha's reaction on being told to change out of her jeans not into her captain's uniform but into that of a stewardess. To say she was not happy was an understatement. "I'm not a stewardess, Carolyn, I'm a pilot, a captain. You can't just expect me to-"

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, you see, I do expect you to and you will, if you want to keep that precious pilot's job you're so fond of." Carolyn said.

"But why? Why can't Arthur just steward like always?"

"Because Mr Birling wants the best, not whatever it is Arthur gives him." Carolyn replied, ignoring the protests of both her son and her captain. "We do not have time for this, Martha, just stop being so childish and go and put it on."

Martha huffed and folded her arms, not moving.

"Go on." Douglas purred. "I'm sure it will look lovely."

"Well, you'll never know because I'm not going to wear it!"

"Oh? Really? But it's just your colour. It'll match your eyes."

"Douglas, I swear-"

"Enough!" Carolyn thundered over them. "Douglas, shut up, Martha, for goodness' sake go and get changed and Arthur go and make sure the inside of Gerti is as clean as the outside. Now!"

Martha went, but not without a filthy look at Douglas which suggested she thought this was all his fault. Well, he was rather enjoying it. Today he was captain again. Only of himself, true, but it would be nice to reclaim his flight deck for a while, even if Martha would undoubtedly be unbearable when she came back. Also, if it was her and Arthur, not Carolyn, who were looking after Mr Birling, it would no doubt be far easier to achieve his real objective for the day- stealing Mr Birling's Talisker. Douglas liked Mr Birling's whiskey even more than he liked Mr Birling's tips and he particularly enjoyed the challenge of stealing it and the feeling smarter than everyone else. This Birling Day would be no different to the rest- no matter how much Carolyn threatened him, which she now proceeded to do, he would not back down. She couldn't really expect him to. This was his game, and he would never give in.

Ooooooooooooo

"Dougie, my dear boy, how are you?" Mr Birling greeted him jovially as he got out of his car at the airfield, where they were waiting to receive him. "Return to command position at last, I see, excellent."

"That's right, Mr Birling, I will be your captain today." Douglas said, more for Martha's benefit than the client's. He could see she was still furious and was wondering how much it would take to tip her over the edge.

"Acting captain!" She said. "He's only acting captain!" She had been expressly forbidden from saying she was the captain, but as she usually announced it to every person that was unfortunate enough to cross her path, Douglas did not hold out much hope of her lasting all the way to Edinburgh and back.

"And who is this?" Mr Birling asked. "New stewardess, is it? My goodness, Dougie, you could do a bit better. What's the point of getting rid of the old one if you're just going to give me an ugly one instead?"

"I beg your pardon?" Martha said, a flush of anger coming to her cheeks.

"Nothing against you dear, nothing against you; I've seen far uglier than you in my time. You're just a bit plain, that's all, you can't deny that, can you? And who are you, young man?"

"Hello Mr Birling! I'm Arthur!"

"Arthur, my lad, good to meet you. Arthur's a good name, like Arthur Lewis. Do you know Arthur Lewis, my boy?"

"Sorry, Arthur who?"

"Lewis, boy, Lewis! He plays rugby for Wales! Or he did, until last year. Follow the rugby, do you?"

"Not really… but I want to! I have some of the cigarette cards."

"An excellent start, an excellent start. We'll soon have you wised up with the best, not to worry."

"I doubt that." Douglas muttered, and for a second Martha's scowl twitched towards a smile. He wished she would laugh more, she was so dour. She probably thought it was a sign of weakness.

"Well, what are we standing about here for?" Mr Birling demanded. "Let's get in the plane and the girl can bring me my whiskey."

"My name is Martha, Mr Birling." Martha said in a tone that suggested she would like to say a lot more.

"Really? How dreadful."

Douglas saw her face and began to get the feeling that this flight was not going to run smoothly.

And indeed he was right. Somehow, remarkably, Martha did not tumble about the size of the tips, and the grossly underestimated amount she did have in her mind after a thoughtless comment from Arthur was not worth, in her opinion, bowing and scraping to a man like Mr Birling. Their toadying frustrated her no end, but really, it was just her pride that was hurt and a slice of humble pie would probably do her some good. Douglas rather hoped that having someone else belittle her would make her think a little more about her dictatorial attempts at flight deck management. Of course, more likely, her smarting pride and undermined confidence would make her worse than ever, but he decided to ignore that possibility. He needed to concentrate on getting the Talisker, but with Martha to serve Mr Birling, Arthur was purely focused on keeping Douglas away from the whiskey and vice versa. The lad was eager but not very bright; he did not present too much of a challenge on his own, but with Martha constantly checking on him and reminding him of his duties it made it much harder. Still, Douglas had a plan all ready to go, he just needed the opportunity to put it into practice.

The opportunity finally came when they had arrived in Edinburgh. A distinctly disgruntled Martha was seeing Mr Birling out to his limo and Douglas was attempting to rig up a television and aerial so they could watch the match on the flight deck. He sent Arthur out to shin up onto the roof to fix the aerial to something and while he was gone, set to work. By the time the boy came back, flustered with his news, Douglas was back in his chair as if nothing had happened.

"Douglas," He said. "I think- well, I was up on the roof and I saw her and she did- Martha just slapped Mr Birling!"

"Goodness." Douglas said, already trying to work out if this would have a negative effect on his level of tip or not. It probably would, which meant something had to be done. "What did he say to her?"

"I don't know, I couldn't hear." Arthur said. "But he's been being a bit, you know, sort of rude-ish the whole flight. I think Skipper was getting cross."

At that moment Martha herself entered, slumping into the spare seat, for once not heeding that it was the first officer's chair. She looked horrified.

"I just slapped Mr Birling." She said, in shock.

"So I hear."

"Carolyn will give me the sack."

"Quite possibly, yes. What happened?"

"I…"

"Here." Douglas handed her a glass, almost empty. "Steady your nerves, Captain."

"Thanks." She sipped gratefully. "Oh, that's good, what is that?"

"Talisker."

"Talisker?! You're drinking Mr Birling's whiskey?!"

"Well," Douglas examined his nails, studiously calm. "Not now, you've finished it."

This was not true. The rest was in the avionics bay, awaiting him to drink them later. But Martha didn't need to know that.

"I don't understand!" Arthur protested as Martha mumbled something about being made an accomplice. "How did you do it?! I checked on my way back in and they were definitely all still there! I picked one at random and it was still sealed!"

"No, Arthur, it still made a 'crkk' noise. Now, there are two ways a bottle can sound like that when it opens. One is-"

"I don't care how you did it!" Martha interrupted. "Just focus on how we're going to stop Carolyn from firing me!"

For a moment Douglas was tempted to say no, to turn her aside. She would have told him that he had made his bed and now he had to lie in it. But once again, he needed Mr Birling to be happy too, and if he was being assaulted by the supposed stewardess, Mr Birling was probably not very happy at all.

"Just calm down and tell us what happened."

"This is why I didn't want to be a stewardess!" Martha sniffed, after a moment's pause. "Men like him, who think you're just there to be leered at. He had no respect, no respect at all. He insulted everything about me, my clothes, my face, the job he thought I had, and when I told him I was the captain he wouldn't believe me! And then, when I was seeing him out to the limo," her eyes lit up with righteous indigence. "He was getting annoyed that I wouldn't roll over like you two and said- you won't believe this- he said 'I assume the other two have told you that I will pay well for your services?'. My services! Well, you can imagine exactly what he meant." She shot a guilty look at Arthur, probably worrying about such sordid talk in front of him. "So I slapped him. He deserved it! She can't fire me!"

Douglas buried his face in his hands and groaned.

"What? What is it?"

"You stupid, stupid girl." He sighed. "Do you honestly think, after he spent all morning calling you ugly or plain, that he would then seriously try to solicit you for sexual favours?!"

Martha shifted uncomfortably. "He might. He might have just been being defensive-"

"No, Martha, no, your services- your customer service. Mr Birling likes us to bend over backwards for him and in return he tips generously."

"Yes, I know, seventy-five quid each. I still don't see-"

"Yeah, but mum said it was only seventy-five because England won." Arthur interrupted. "The time before that, he gave her a grand, and Wales weren't even playing that time."

"What? Why would he support Wales?"

"I know it may be hard to tell from behind that Eton accent, Martha," Douglas drawled. "But Mr Birling hails from the foreign climes of Swansea. If Wales win today- and I think they just might- he'll be all set to hand out money like a terminally disorganised Father Christmas. Unless, of course, he's too busy being upset by the idiot girl who slapped him round the face!"

"I… I…" Martha was too flabbergasted by the revelation to even retort to the insult. "I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me?!"

"Oh? Isn't it corrupt? I thought for sure your moral code would be too strict to ever allow you to accept-"

"You're right." She said, nodding. "It is corrupt. You can't just treat people differently just because they're rich like that. It's good that we won't get it. It's the right thing to do."

The quaver in her voice was not convincing anyone. She wouldn't say no to a thousand pounds any more than Douglas would.

"Well, thank you for selflessly deciding that on behalf of the team." Douglas snapped. "The fact remains, however, that if Mr Birling is not happy with you by the end of the trip, he will report you to Carolyn and you will be fired."

"Oh." She said. "So what do I do?"

"The same as the rest of us." Douglas shrugged. "Leave your dignity at the door and bow and scrape as if your life depends on it."

Ooooooooooooo

Well, Douglas thought dully, as he watched the extremely drunken Mr Birling being bundled into his car at the end of the day, having not given any of them any tip whatsoever. At least no-one can say she didn't try.

Martha had tried. She had proven herself to have a natural talent for sucking up to people. However, she had taken her just-say-yes campaign too far and had allowed Mr Birling to consume so much cheap whiskey he had become practically catatonic. Douglas was not at all impressed.

"Maybe, when he sobers up, he'll remember he didn't tip us and send us a cheque!" Arthur tried.

"Yes, or perhaps he'll ask those nice people at Pinewood studios to drop it in the next time they come to film a plane taking off." Douglas snapped back. Next to him, Martha quietly smoked the end of a post-flight cigarette. "You just lost us a lot of money, Captain, I hope you're happy." He said, sourly.

"No I didn't." She replied to him between drags. "We never had it in the first place, so how can I have lost it? Anyway, we haven't come away empty handed. You still get to drink all the Talisker and I get to keep my job without Carolyn finding out I hit a client."

It suddenly occurred to Douglas that Martha might have got Mr Birling too drunk, sacrificed all their tips, deliberately, in order to ensure the absolute safety of her own skin.

He decided to put the thought out of his mind. He could deal with many things, but the idea of there being a devious side to Martha Crieff was not one of them.