Flying Without Wings

by Paula Wynne

  ‘Hey! Listen, it’s only a job.’

  ‘That’s not the point. You shouldn’t go near him.’

  Luke was shaking his head now, visibly angry. ‘Just stop going on about it, yeah?’ Then he turned and ran off, and in no time he was out of sight.

  Matt glared around for something to point his anger at. Just the day before he’d seen a stranger snooping around this part of the airfield fence. Some poser grockle probably out from London to check out the Air Fest in his shiny Merc and pristine clothes. The poser had had a poor dog with him which he kept kicking, and Matt wished they were here again now so he could shout at him to stop.

  Instead he tripped along, dragging his painful ankle. Ignoring the thickness in his throat and the trickles of sweat dripping down his armpits, he muttered at his right foot through clenched teeth, ‘Useless!’

  Trying not to get sucked back into dwelling on how the foot had ruined everything, Matt spotted Luke in the distance, actually inside the airfield, and watched as his brother dropped his rucksack to the ground, pulled out an overall and climbed into it. Then, Luke sauntered towards the airfield hangar, a huge grin on his face.

  Matt sagged against the tree. Just as Luke had once been slower and less able than him, before the accident, so he could now see that Luke was starting to make the dream a reality. His dream.

  Once again, thoughts of the RAF rules stabbed through him. How could this happen? Now, after all the work he had put in to achieve his dream.

  What was the point of anything? That stupid piece of paper had already confirmed that his life was ruined.

  16

  Matt whistled for Buster. In the distance a dog barked, and Matt cringed. The main reason he’d decided to walk old Bill’s dog just now was to distract himself from thinking about the airfield, but of course the pooch had only gone and darted off there.

  He really, really couldn’t let that bastard pilot see him sneaking in, but he also didn’t have time to dawdle and wait for Buster to decide to return on his own.

  At the last, fattened oak tree in the woodlands, he ducked down into the ditch that ran along this side of the airfield.

  Crawling through the long grass made him want to sneeze, but at least it wasn’t full of mud. The month had been warm, and it had dried up the little stream that sometimes ran through here in winter.

  A stone’s throw from the airfield gate, he wriggled through the hole in the fence. Thankfully, he had long ago cut the barbs around the hole, so it was easier to get through. And, just as thankfully, it was hidden by an overgrown bush which Bomber had never bothered to cut back. So his hiding place was still accessible. He scrambled up the bank on the other side and hobbled as fast as he could up behind the hangar. He couldn’t risk being seen. Especially by Bomber!

  Buster might have picked up Luke’s scent and gone looking for him.

  Matt wasn’t about to go in and face that dickhead pilot, so he’d wait out of sight until he could spot the dog and work out the best way to get his attention.

  For a long, dreamy moment, he peered at the busy little airfield.

  Then, after checking carefully that no one was around, he crept up to the open-sided lean-to at the back of the hangar. He squeezed through the gap between the fire extinguisher bottles and large water butts. Then he stepped over the row of empty oil drums wedged between all the other junk and tiptoed over to the old workbench.

  He had spent many happy days there spying on Bomber and the other pilots. Many times, a split in the pipes high above had dripped rainwater on his head instead of draining it down the gutter and into the butts.

  But he loved the buzz.

  Matt had only chanced upon this vantage point one day when he was hiding from Ben and Luke, not all that long before he had broken his ankle. They had chased him through the woods, and he had sprinted away from them and decided to hide behind the oil barrels.

  Wriggling in behind the discarded clutter, he had jammed himself into the space that was hidden by the water butts, hoping they wouldn’t see him. They hadn’t. He’d enjoyed hearing them call him names, for ages, until they gave up. He still remembered watching his breath swirl in the cold winter morning and disappear under a latched slat of aluminium. The hole, hidden by the butts, was also protected from the elements by the containers.

  Peering closer, he’d seen the two sheets of aluminium didn’t bond and left a gaping hole, seen only if you were right up in that difficult, squashed position.

  Now, he watched a Cessna taking off, and a twin-engine landing. Pilots to-ing and fro-ing. Nearby a pilot ambled around his plane, checking the wings, propeller and engine.

  Matt held his breath to stay unobserved and keep his hiding place secret, as he always did. They were stupid enough not to notice that he came down here most days. He could’ve nicked most of their gear if he’d wanted to, but his sole purpose was to watch and absorb everything the owners of the planes did.

  He might not be able to get his own wings, but he could still learn how to be a pilot.

  For a moment he was carried away on his imagination, as he flew his own plane in the basic physical fitness test free skies of his mind.

  The sudden clatter of an old war plane thundered towards him. Matt blinked and plummeted out of his daydream.

  He hurried out of the lean-to and dared to sneak closer to the concrete area where planes were fixed and fuelled. He lined himself up against the huge petrol tank and ignored the intoxicating smell of petrol, fermented with engine oil and grease.

  A real-life vintage plane taxied up to the hangar’s open door. The engine noise was worse than thunder, but he loved it. His eyes were glued to the blur of the spinning propeller.

  Matt was transfixed. How cool to have a real vintage plane right in front of him. His heart knocked against his ribs, half in fear and half in awe. For a moment, the sun blinded him and then he saw it was a Spitfire.

  The engine roared one last time and the pilot switched it off. The propeller spun around and slowed to a stop.

  A pilot climbed out.

  Matt swallowed hard and ducked his head as the pilot stomped past him, not even glancing towards his hiding place. He watched him disappear into the pilot’s cabin.

  Bomber!

  The pilot always seemed to have a thick shadow of stubble across his chin and jaw and closeting his mouth. He also wore a permanent scowl on his face. Although his burnt-caramel hair seemed to want to hang dead straight, the way he hand-brushed it back off his forehead showed off his strong, craggy face and the furrows lining his forehead.

  Suddenly Luke tapped his shoulder and hissed, ‘What are you doing here?’

  Matt’s brain clunked in neutral for a few seconds until he remembered he could blame the dog. ‘I’m looking for Buster.’

  ‘Oh, okay. I’ll go see if he’s in with Bomber,’ Luke chuckled. ‘He knows his way around here and just goes into the cabin and sits on Bomber’s chair.’ He spun around and ran off, whistling for the dog.

  Matt stepped closer to the old Spitfire and stood staring at it. He reached out and ran his hand lovingly along the plane.

  Suddenly from the pathway on the other side of the airfield fence a voice shouted, ‘Forget it mate, it’s not a Harrier!’

  Another joined in, ‘Yeah, you a fighter pilot…my arse!’

  Without having to look, Matt recognised Ben and Josh.

  He knew they would be passing the airfield on the way to the shops. Most of the locals took the short cut. Matt swivelled around to hurry away, but felt his breath go as if he’d been punched in the gut.

  Bomber was in his path.

  Deep-set eyes, under thick eyebrows similar to his own, glared at Matt. His legs looked long even in the baggy overalls, and Matt knew from having seen him in uniform that his torso was muscular and hard as nails.

  For a long moment, they stared at each other.

  A lump instantly formed in Matt’s throat and his eyes prickled with the hint of tears. He cursed him
self for getting all soppy, this one and only time he had seen Bomber face-to-face since they had got the news. He wanted to say something but didn’t know what. Besides, the words would’ve just got scrambled up in his dry mouth.

  Bomber broke the tension by turning and shouting at Ben and Josh, ‘Clear off, hooligans!’

  They swaggered off, sniggering and jeering.

  ‘You’re a cripple too, old man, you’re not worthy of being a fighter pilot either. You’d just Bomb!’ Ben shouted, pointing at him. He slapped Josh’s shoulder and bellowed with laughter, ‘Get it? He’d bomb.’

  Matt muttered, ‘Ignore them, they’re knob-heads!’ He suddenly realised he was standing up for Bomber, as if they were on the same side. He limped away from the vintage plane. ‘I only wanted to see your Spitfire.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Bomber waved him towards the old war plane, then turned and marched back off to the pilot’s cabin, slamming the door behind him.

  For a long moment Matt stood before the venerable, beautiful plane. His hand reached out and he caressed the fuselage, up to the wing and then down to the tail. What a beauty!

  Suddenly mocking laughter came from beyond the fence. Ben and Josh had doubled back. ‘Forget it, cripple,’ Ben yelled, ‘you can’t even walk upstairs, never mind wing walk!’ He guffawed at his own attempt at humour, whacking Josh to let him know he’d made a joke. ‘Yeah, you got your head in the clouds and your gammy foot stuck in the mud.’

  Moving on from wit to physical comedy, Ben slapped his palm over his bicep, bent his elbow and yanked his fist in the air.

  Matt ignored the rude sign and glanced down at the ground.

  Suddenly Luke appeared with Buster at his feet. ‘Leave him alone! You losers!’

  ‘You’re both wankers!’ Ben made a few more gestures, but then the two of them wandered off, sniggering.

  ‘What’s up, lads?’

  Matt spun around to see Bomber watching them, eyes burning with irritation.

  Luke pointed at Ben and Josh. ‘They shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near here. What’re you gonna do about them, Bomber?’

  ‘Kick them off my property, just like I’m about to do to your brother.’

  ‘Wait, can you teach him? Make him a pilot.’

  One of Bomber’s eyebrows moved up his forehead. ‘Why?’

  ‘He wants to fly, but he can’t apply to the RAF.’

  The pilot glanced at Matt, looking oddly thoughtful.

  Matt had turned red, his mouth falling open in disbelief as his brother calmly trotted out this extremely personal information. ‘Forget it, Luke!’ he growled.

  Luke ignored him and pleaded, ‘Please. This place needs a bloody good tidy up before the air show. I can’t do it all myself. And Matt’s good at cleaning.’

  Matt gawked at Luke but remained silent.

  Now he felt Bomber’s eyes on him, and he met the pilot’s gaze for an agonisingly long moment. Finally, Bomber grabbed a broom that was leaning near him and threw it at Matt. ‘See if you can work as hard as your brother.’

  Matt leaned sideways and grabbed the broom in mid-air before it crashed onto the floor. Bomber pointed to a row of hooks on the wall. ‘And grab yourself some overalls.’

  ‘Cool!’ Luke grinned. ‘What about Buster?’

  Bomber leaned over and tousled the dog’s head. ‘You can stay too, old friend.’

  As before, Bomber turned and disappeared into the pilots’ cabin without another word. And with Buster in tow.

  ‘Now see what you’ve done!’ Matt yelled, his embarrassment now turning to anger. ‘I don’t want to work for him! You shouldn’t be here either.’

  ‘Jesus, Matt, you’re worse than Buster when he gets a new bone. Give it a break! Besides, if you don’t want to be here,’ Luke pointed at the pilot’s cabin, ‘you go and tell him yourself!’ he stormed off.

  He’d just hide out until Buster reappeared and then he’d get the hell out of here.

  But what would the bastard pilot think of him just disappearing? He certainly didn’t want him thinking he wasn’t up to the job. Or worse …that he’d let his mum down by being a no-show loser.

  Matt cringed. Life was getting more complicated by the minute.

  What did it matter what Bomber thought of him? He didn’t care. He wasn’t about to become a traitor like Luke and work for the man who was responsible for their father no longer being in their lives.

  Matt sidled away, watching for Buster.

  17

  Little Hollow, Berkshire, England

  The next morning, Matt finished wiping down Mum’s café window. She insisted it should always shine and sparkle in the sunlight. First, he had to do the inside and outside, and then polish the sign over the door: The Cinnamon Stick.

  Mum was a bit of a cinnamon nut; she sprinkled it on everything and baked with it all the time. Thus the name of the café.

  The village square had been formed out of old farm barns that had been converted. What had once been stinking cow and pig sheds were now the centre of a rustic idyll called The Fairground. All made possible by the Balmaine family, of course. Everything that happened around here was due to them.

  Bomber’s family.

  That was how Mum had got her coffee shop. They’d given it to her rent-free for life. If Bomber thought he could buy them off with that and all the new stuff he gave them, he was mistaken. Matt wasn’t falling for it. His blood boiled just thinking of it all. He kicked his useless foot at the shingle covering the square. Being swung like a club at stuff was one of the few things it was still useful for.

  Most shops only opened at ten, but people were milling around already. He hoped none of them would talk to him. A smile with a nod was his preferred limit for social gestures.

  He hadn’t always been this way. Before the accident he’d been outgoing and confident, but afterwards the teasing and the sense of being a target had made him retreat inwards, where it was safer. Now, it seemed, he had a dread about saying something stupid, so even mumbling just any answer wasn’t an option. Silence was better. But then, of course, the less you spoke the harder it got, and before you knew it you found yourself paralysed by even the simplest greeting.

  He’d been happy enough keeping to himself, but then Mum went and got herself a café. He drew the line at waiting tables, but he always helped with clearing up and cleaning. Out of the way of people.

  Back inside the shop, he filled the glass case showing off a selection of snacks, breakfast muffins, sandwiches, pastries, gift wrapped home-made cookies, sandwiches and wraps. Before the waitresses arrived, he filled all the sugar jars and cinnamon shakers, plus folded the napkins. All the things that he did on autopilot.

  He shuddered. Any association with flying seemed to bring on the panic. It had to stop. He couldn’t let some stupid rule ruin his life.

  Remembering that he hadn’t taken out the chalkboard with specials written on it, he grabbed it and trudged outside with it to the artist’s easel. He positioned it so that everyone browsing around the group of shops in The Fairground could see that smoothies, teas, lattes, cappuccinos, or espresso drinks were given free with a cake or sandwich.

  Finally, he escaped to an alcove at the back. Mum called it the lovers’ alcove because young couples always chose the nook to share a coffee and cake away from the main eating area.

  He read the information again, trying to figure out how he could make it work. Luke had disappeared down to the airfield, telling Mum that he was getting a job at the local garage. He supposed it would be a good cover for the oil-stained overalls worn at the airfield.

  Normal sounds, Mum grinding coffee beans, the whirr of the milk-frothing machine, the hum of the oven and the ding of the cash register, all grated on his nerves today. He had mopped the floor for Mum when they arrived and even the swish of the mop on the tiles had annoyed him.

  At least the strong smell of coffee brewing and the aromatic scent of Mum’s famous cinnamon whirl biscuits, fresh out of the ove
n, soothed his frustration. Not that coffee and cookies would do him any good.

  ‘Matt!’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do me a favour: go and get me a pot of baking powder. I’ve just run out and need to make some fresh scones. I think the good weather will bring in the old girls for cream teas today.’

  Sighing, he folded the paper and tucked it away. He ambled over to Mum, who seemed dwarfed by the giant coffee machine with its hooded bean grinder on top. Beside her, shelves were crammed with a tower of paper cups and lids, and a tip jar sat near the cash register.

  ‘My hands are full of dough,’ Mum wriggled her caked fingers. ‘Grab a pound note, will you? No one wants them in change now that the coins are here.’

  He hit the cash register’s secret button and it pinged open. He took one of the green pound notes, rolled it up, and stuffed it in his pocket.

  Squeezing past Mum, he accidentally leant on the frothing machine, which sent a burst of steam around his face, misting his eyes.

  ‘Don’t dawdle. I need to get the scones into the oven.’

  He nodded, without enthusiasm, and pulled open the door. Its bell chimed as it whooshed shut behind him.

  As he passed the farm shop, the butcher was carrying a carcass into his cold room at the back. He waved and called out, ‘Morning Matt.’

  ‘Hi Tony.’

  He received more waves and greetings as he headed into the convenience store a few doors down. On the far side of the square, a group of teens were hanging out, sitting on the benches and drinking fizzy drinks.

  Ben.

  The bully held it up high and shouted to Matt, ‘Hey Butt Head, this is what you need. It’s the only fing that will give you wings!’

  His mates all fell about laughing.

  Matt hurried into the shop and went in search of the baking powder.

  The shop door jingled as someone entered. Matt stiffened, hoping Ben wasn’t going to pursue him and cause a fuss inside the shop. They never came down to this side of the square. Ben feared Mum’s tongue and the butcher had chased them away, too.