Gretchen Ryan - 10 May

First published 2019

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

Gretchen Ryan, 2019

The right of Gretchen Ryan to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources and indiviudals where appropriate. In the event that any images or information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 9174 2

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International Ltd.

Thank you, Mom, for teaching me to find humour in every situation, to value my friends and family and for instilling in me a positive attitude to life. You were the maestro!

This book is dedicated to everyone who perished in the Helderberg disaster. You have never been forgotten.

It was the 1980s, when all self-respecting women wore shoulder pads and legwarmers, possibly at the same time. Air hostesses, meanwhile, squeezed themselves into tight-fitting skirts and were weighed before every flight to make sure that, heaven forbid, they werent too fat to fly. For the airline industry, it was a period of debauchery and there was a complete absence of political correctness. Amen to that!

Sexual harassment was not, as yet, a coined term. Discrimination was an undiscovered word. What a world it was! We had The Carpenters and Donny Osmond, Maggie Thatcher and feathered hair. Now thats what I call nostalgia.

Many readers will be horrified at what the rookie air hostess encountered at the hands of lascivious pilots. And please God, do not let any daughter of mine be subjected to those wandering hands. In todays world, a lot of the behaviour described would be liable to prosecution, but these anecdotes need to be seen in context. There will never be another time like that bygone era. And maybe thats not a bad thing! This was a time of excess, cleverly disguised as fun. Is it a sentimental yearning for the past, or is it simply the memory of youth, that makes the good old days seem so attractive?

Indeed, if you think the bankers or politicians were up to no good, you shouldve seen what was happening in airlines during that period. In fact, youd be forgiven for thinking that some of the stories in this memoir were urban legends. But, believe you me, they happened! Just like when Jules, an obviously gay steward working in the business-class cabin, came swishing down the aisle, stopped beside a man and woman seated in his section and said, The captain has asked me to announce that hell be landing this super colossal aeroplane shortly, my lovelies, so if you could just put up your tray tables, that would be abolsutely marvellous.

On his trip back up the aisle, he noticed that the woman had ignored his request. Darling, maybe you didnt hear me over those naughty, noisy engines. I asked you to raise your trazy-poo. The main man is going to pop us onto the ground in a seccie

She turned to him and said, In my country I am called a Princess. I take orders from no-one.

Well, sweet cheeks, in my world Im called a Queen, so I outrank you. Put up the tray, bitch!

And just for the record if anyone recognises themselves in this memoir, dont flatter yourself. Its not you. Even if you have the same name. Its probably just somebody who reminds me very much of you.

Also ... if a few of the facts are wrong, well, thats just the way I remember it. After all, why let the truth stand in the way of a good story?

April 1983

It was essential to appear nonchalant about my new career. Soon I would be lunching on the Champs lyses one day, whizzing down the slopes of St Moritz the next, before running with the bulls in Pamplona the following one. It was a well-known fact that an aircrews idea of roughing it was anything less than a five-star hotel. I liked that philosophy.

My smoky-blue uniform hung from the cupboard door, covered in plastic. The wrapping was meant to deceive anyone who might enter my bedroom into thinking that I had not tried it on a 100 times already. It was the real McCoy. The white cotton shirt sat crisply against my skin. The skirt was snug. I buttoned up the waistcoat and only once I had slid my arms into the cool lining of the jacket did I look up. Nearly there. The silky orange, white and blue patterned scarf, loosely knotted, felt like soft ice cream around my neck. Dark stockings and navy blue high heels completed the look. The coup de grce was when I pinned a shiny bronze wing to my lapel. A glamorous figure looked back at me from the full-length mirror with a mixture of pride and disbelief. Eat your heart out, Coco Chanel.

I had finally achieved my girlhood dream of becoming one of those most revered of all female species: an airline stewardess the epitome of glamour and sophistication. Especially to one like me, who had grown up in a one-horse backwater farming community in a rural part of South Africa. Perhaps my view was skewed: I even thought the lady who collected our money at the local swimming pool was smart and sophisticated. Maybe it was the uniform.

My father clearly didnt share the same enthusiasm for my new career. He whinged about the fortune he had spent on my university education. You dont need a degree to become a flying mattress, he wailed, fuelling even more excitement in me. I had no idea when he had become an authority on the purported wanton behaviour associated with air hostesses. I had already disappointed him by not following the generations-old tradition of pursuing a profession in the law. That was what our family did. Just not me. I was about to spread my wings.

Four years at university had slowly integrated me into city life. I swapped my bare feet for sandals, traded frayed shorts for miniskirts and made new friends. However, despite this metamorphosis from country bumpkin to city girl, I was nowhere near as grown up as I was to become in the airline industry.

The day I plonked that mortarboard on my head and donned my black cape was the same day I was advised that my application for a role as cabin crew for South African Airways had been successful. As the chancellor of the university was about to tap me on the head, I said to him, Im going to be an air hostess. He looked horrified and brought the wand down with far more force than required. He wouldve been lethal with a samurai sword. Just the thought of that made me rush my very unacademic legs right off that stage.