His father opened his mouth to speak but Andrew spoke over him: ‘Whatever happens it’s better than what’s likely to happen here.’
The pregnant criticism hung in the air.
‘What I mean is’ – Andrew paused – ‘you went to France, Dad. You saw something of the world. You met people who didn’t live on the same street and didn’t go to the same school as you.’ He sighed: ‘What I really mean is… I want more than the meat counter at The International Stores.’
His father’s eyes narrowed. Turning away he took out his pipe and filled the bowl from a worn leather tobacco pouch.
‘Yes, I met those people. Most of them were your age. Most of them went to France with the people who lived in the same street, or the pals they had at school. And I saw an awful lot of them get broken into pieces.’ He put away the pouch and hung his head. ‘I’ll not consent’ – he turned back to face his son – ‘for your mother’s sake.’
Creeping hostility dangled between them in the evening air before Andrew turned and stalked away.
Anthony watched him go and lit his pipe, the flame leaping in the gathering gloom. Suddenly choked by smoke he heaved into a wracking cough. After a few moments the coughing subsided, but the tears continued to flow.
Chapter 3
Semino
24th September, 1931
Gerry finished packing his things. Everything fitted into a small attaché case except his plimsolls, which he tied to the handle by their laces. Clutching the case he went out onto the porch to sit with his parents in the early morning sunlight. Max Anderson would be here soon.
The family sat huddled together, all watching the road for dust clouds. Promising clouds appeared, but each time the vehicle creating them drove past the turn-off to the farm.
Mary opened her mouth to speak but a flash of light in the sky stopped her short. She shaded her eyes with her hand and the light came again. The sun, still low in the sky, glinted on some shiny surface.
‘What’s that?’ she murmured, ‘in the sky… there.’
A distant droning teased the air.
Gerry stood, also shading his eyes. ‘It’s a plane,’ he said. ‘It’s a red and white plane. He’s picking me up in his plane!’
The aircraft dipped and bobbed as it lost altitude.
‘You’ve got good eyesight, son,’ his father said.
‘You have to look at the sky rather than for the plane,’ he answered.
The biplane roared over their heads, 50ft above the ground. Colourful streamers flapped and writhed from the wing struts. Passing over the Donaldsons, Max pulled the plane up into a shallow climb, the wash from his propeller swirling dust and leaves around the yard.
The engine’s roar subsided into a grumble as Max lined up to land in the hayfield beyond the farmyard, setting down with a perfect three-point landing. The machine rolled to a stop and the idling engine dropped to a bubbling chuckle, the streamers twitching behind the wings.
Gerry and his parents walked across the yard to the hayfield.
‘Goodbye, sir.’ Gerry shook his father’s hand.
‘Work hard and be respectful to Mr Anderson, son. We’ll see you for Christmas.’
Gerry turned to his mother who stooped to kiss his forehead.
‘Write to me about the things you’re doing, Gerry,’ she said.
Gerry nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.
His father handed him his case, caught his eye and winked.
Gerry swung through the gate into the hayfield and walked to the plane. He remembered the places on the wing strong enough to bear his weight. Placing his luggage on the cockpit floor, he swung his legs in afterwards and settled into the seat. He pulled on the helmet and gloves he found there and secured the straps.
The engine noise rose to a crescendo, Max waved to the Donaldsons and kicked the rudder to turn the plane into the wind. As they sped across the field Gerry looked back at his mother.
Soft tears ran on Mary’s cheeks as she watched the biplane drag its way into the sky. Her breast filled with conflicting emotions. Her pride burned through her sadness, but both mixed with fear.
Bob’s hand squeezed her shoulder as he turned towards the house. She heard him walk across the yard behind her, but didn’t move to follow. Instead she watched the aircraft recede and vanish, her vision blurred by quiet tears. Even then she stood for long minutes alone before wiping her cheeks with her handkerchief and turning from the hayfield.
25th September, 1931
Gerry’s eyes snapped open. The first rays of sunlight sliced through the cavernous space above his head. Confused, he stared at the tiny motes of dust drifting across the sunbeams until the events of the previous day rushed back and he recognised the dark, shallow-vaulted roof high above him as an aircraft hangar. He pulled himself up onto one elbow to look around.
His straw-stuffed mattress lay on a wooden pallet at the back corner of the building, diagonally opposite the fuel pumps that stood next to the huge doors. From where he reclined, he could see all six planes. Beyond them, one of the doors stood open. The other door inched along its rails. Through the gaps between wings and struts he could see Max straining against the weight of the structure.
A few yards from Gerry’s cot a door led to a small washroom. He climbed out of his bed and went to wash his face and torso in the cold water from the single tap. As he emerged Max finished his struggle with the door and threaded his way through the parked aircraft. He dawdled, distracted as he filled and lit his pipe. Satisfied with the burn, he looked up to see Gerry pulling on his shirt.
‘Hallooo!’ he called, the reverberations of the metal building lending his big voice a sonorous timbre. ‘It’s a beautiful day. Indian summer, I think.’ Max waited as Gerry tidied his cot and pulled on his boots.
‘Good morning, Mr Anderson. What do you want me to do?’
Max grinned. ‘From now on I want you to open the hangar in the morning. Damn doors are getting heavier.’ He walked back towards the entrance. ‘You’ll be in charge of the gas pumps too. It’s important to keep good records’ – he paused to look back at Gerry – ‘are you good at math?’
Gerry nodded.
Max smiled in satisfaction and continued his journey across the hangar. ‘The important thing to remember about gas pumping…’
Gerry stroked his fingertips over wings and craned to peep into cockpits as he trailed behind Max.
‘…otherwise there’ll likely be an explosion!’ Max turned on his heel to face the boy by means of punctuating his sentence.
‘An explosion!’ repeated Gerry, his mind racing to dredge the rest of the instructions from behind his daydreaming.
‘But not to worry, I’ll supervise the first two or three fills to make sure you don’t damage my beautiful aeroplanes,’ Max concluded.
Gerry exhaled in relief. ‘And when there’s no gas pumping to do?’ he asked, anxious to look keen.
Max shrugged. ‘Whatever Floyd and Winston need you to do.’
Two men strode through the hangar entrance. They both wore begrimed overalls and carried steel toolboxes.
‘Floyd and Winston,’ Max said by way of greeting the new arrivals. ‘Gerry.’
‘I’m Floyd.’ The first man introduced himself, pumping Gerry’s hand once. ‘D’you know how an engine works?’
‘Yes, sir, I do—’ Gerry began, but before he had time to add qualification to his answer the other man took up his hand.
‘And I’m Winston. I hope you slept okay. It’ll be a bit different from what you’re used to I expect. Still I’m sure we’ll all be getting along fine.’ All the time Winston spoke he held Gerry’s right hand in his, squeezing to emphasise his sentiments. The rough dryness of his skin, desiccated by the ravages of aviation fuel and engine oil, chafed Gerry’s palm.
****
Learning filled the rest of Gerry’s day: safety procedures, emergency routines, runway and perimeter track etiquette, fuel capacities, aircraft t
ypes, record keeping, security requirements and mealtimes. It was late afternoon before Max called a halt and led Gerry across the field to the canteen door.
Inside Winston stirred a large pot of baked beans on the stove-top while Floyd toasted thick slices of bread on a fork in front of the open stove door. A wooden table with six rough chairs stood next to the stove at the room’s centre. Old armchairs lined the walls and a bookshelf held a collection of tatty books – technical journals jumbled in amongst trashy fiction and comics. A long black stovepipe reached up to the ceiling. The warm atmosphere made the space convivial, a feeling magnified by the spicy aroma of the beans.
Winston lifted the pot from the stove, serving the beans onto four plates. Floyd added the fresh piece of toast to the pile in the middle of the table and bent to close the stove door. The four men sat down to supper. Gerry wondered if the engineers approved of the extra mouth at the table.
Self-conscious, he broke the silence. ‘These are good beans,’ he announced to the room in general.
Floyd looked up from his plate and smiled. ‘They’re good beans,’ he agreed. ‘They’re not your mommy’s beans. But when you’re hungry, they’re damn fine beans.’
‘Amen.’ Winston reached over and ruffled Gerry hair.
Silence dropped again onto the group. Feeling at home, Gerry reached out for another piece of toast.
****
Max finished his meal, pushed away his plate and filled the bowl of his pipe with fragrant tobacco.
‘How’s the Brougham running, Floyd?’
Floyd paused from mopping the bean juice off his plate. ‘Perfect, Boss. She’s just been tuned and re-greased.’
Max grunted his satisfaction through the first plumes of blue smoke from his fresh pipe. ‘Good. Tomorrow afternoon Gerry starts his lessons.’
26th September, 1931
Max rolled the Brougham out through the hangar doors with short bursts of throttle. Floyd and Winston walked at his wingtips, ensuring safe passage through the other planes. Gerry walked backwards in front of the aircraft, waving Max on and out through the doors.
Clear of all obstructions, Max waved Floyd and Winston away and turned off the engine. The engineers made their way back to the hangar. Gerry stood still, confused.
Max, climbing out of the plane, sensed Gerry’s disappointment and smiled. ‘Oh, no, young man. There’s more than enough to learn here on the ground before we venture up there.’ His eyebrows waggled skywards. ‘Come over here and we’ll make a start.’
The Brougham had a wide, boxy fuselage with an enclosed cabin behind the engine. The single wing ran across the top of the cabin. Struts sloped up from the undercarriage to support the wings. The fuselage narrowed aft of the cabin and tapered to the tail. After the streamer-bedecked bi-plane, it looked like a combine harvester. Gerry joined Max beside the aeroplane.
Max pointed at the hinged flap on the back edge of the wing. ‘This is called an aileron…’
For the next hour the man and the boy worked their way around the aircraft. From time to time Max ducked back into the cabin to move the control column or rudder bar to illustrate how this altered the control surfaces on the wings and tail. Gerry ran his hands across the surfaces as they moved, envisioning the flow of air and struggling to conceive the differing forces coming to bear on the plane in flight. Max used his hands to demonstrate angles and enlivened the lesson with anecdotes.
When they’d finished the tour of the machine Gerry took a step back, regarding the whole aeroplane once more. It was more pigeon than eagle, but nonetheless a flying machine, and now he understood how it performed its magic.
‘Put some chocks under those wheels, Gerry. We’ll leave her out tonight’ – Max studied the sky – ‘the weather is set fair’.
‘We’ve finished?’ Gerry blurted the question in his surprise.
‘Me,’ Max said, ‘I’ve finished.’ His smile broadened. ‘You’ – he jabbed Gerry in the chest – ‘have to wash the plane.’
30th October, 1931
Gerry looked at the sky in hope but the clouds hung far too low. Winter stalked the late autumnal skies and despite the overcast; a morning frost sparkled on the grass. The season’s first snow was not far distant.
Gerry was buoyant. He glowed with achievement from his first solo flight, snatched the previous day during a break in the heavy weather. Now he needed to log as many hours as possible before the spring and his licence application.
He retreated to a chair just inside the hangar, keeping the door ajar to maintain his weather-watch. Pulling a notebook and pencil from his pocket he started a letter to his mother. He’d barely written a paragraph before a movement across the field distracted him.
A girl walked along on the grass, her faded red dungarees reflecting the red of her hair, tousled in the growing breeze. Despite the cool weather, she’d rolled up her trouser legs and walked barefoot. She carried her pumps in her right hand, her left arm looped through the handle of a large basket.
Gerry caught himself staring, and bent back to his letter. But he could only resist for a second before his eyes darted back to the girl. Standing, he dropped the notebook onto the chair. He took a deep breath and strode out of the hangar door, hoping he looked like someone on his way to somewhere else.
The girl did not notice him. He drew closer but she remained lost in her daydream. Gerry swallowed hard and jumped at his last chance to speak before they passed.
‘What are you doing?’ He meant to speak with a confident air of authority but his nervousness made his words abrupt.
The girl jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘Feeling.’ She yelped the word in surprise. The two looked at each other with mounting embarrassment.
The girl regained her composure first. ‘Feeling the grass between my toes,’ she explained. ‘It’s like paddling in the ocean, only softer. Have you ever seen the ocean?’
Gerry groped for a reply. ‘Yes… no… I mean only in books.’
‘I haven’t seen the real ocean either,’ she went on. ‘It’s just the way I imagine it.’
The early frost had melted to heavy dew and the droplets covered the girl’s feet, emphasising the smooth white of her skin. Gerry felt himself staring again.
‘Anyway,’ he said, desperate to regain momentum, scrambling for something to say. The girl waited for him to finish his sentence.
‘I came to warn you,’ he stumbled on. ‘It’s very dangerous around here, with the aeroplanes and all.’
The girl glanced past Gerry at the closed hangar doors and the empty quadrangle.
‘Hmm, I know’ – she smiled – ‘but if they’re likely to hurt you they’re generally making a lot of noise.’
Gerry’s cheeks reddened. The girl saw his discomfort and offered her hand in rescue.
‘My name is Devline. Devline Charwood. I deliver the bread.’ She nodded at her basket.
Gerry took her outstretched hand. ‘I’m Gerry Donaldson.’ A smile broke across his face. ‘I fly the planes.’
Devline bent to brush the water from her feet and replace her shoes. Tottering on one foot, she put out her hand to grab Gerry’s overalls for balance. Gerry reached out and caught her shoulder. She glanced up and smiled.
‘I’m on my way to the gate. If you believe I’d be safer with an escort you could walk with me.’ She pulled on her shoes and stood up straight.
‘I’d be happy to.’ His voice sounded normal for the first time since leaving the hangar.
Gerry took her basket and they ambled along the track. As they walked, they talked about themselves. Gerry described his birthday flight and the day Max collected him. Devline talked about her mother’s recent illness which had prevented her from delivering the bread she baked.
As she spoke Gerry watched Devline’s lips move and her eyes flash. Even the lank autumnal light picked out the myriad of colour tones in her red hair.
They reached the airfield gates where Devline’s bicycle stood against the fence. Ger
ry’s cheeks coloured again.
‘Will I see you again?’ he asked.
Devline smiled. ‘Tomorrow’ – she reached for her basket – ‘when I bring the bread. And the day after that and the day after that. Until you get fed up with seeing me or fed up with bread.’ Smiling in farewell she mounted her bike and cycled off.
Gerry watched until she was out of sight.
12th November, 1931
Eileen Drew bustled around her room getting ready to leave the house. Pinning back her hair, she hummed a tune to herself. The after-hours job cleaning local offices suited her temperament and she valued the time away from her house, away from Samuel. She trotted down the landing to get hand-cream from the bathroom. On the way back she stuck her head into Vincent’s room.
‘It’s nearly six, Vincent, I’ll be off soon.’
The boy lay on his bed staring up at the ceiling. ‘I know,’ he replied in a flat voice.
‘Stop it, Vincent. You’re a big boy now. And your dad will be back in another hour or so. Let’s not go through this again.’ His mother’s padding footsteps hardened as she pulled on her flat shoes. She clacked down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to pull on a raincoat.
‘Goodnight, sweetheart,’ she called up the narrow stairs. ‘God, bless.’
Vincent remained silent, listening to her lift the latch and close the door.
Sometimes it felt like minutes before his father opened the same door. The silence of waiting throbbed in his ears with dark foreboding. His mouth dried with fearful anticipation and the air he sucked over his tongue tasted of brass. Sometimes he cried, but most evenings the hopeless inevitability kept his eyes dry.
There… the click of the latch and some shuffling in the dark as a coat is shrugged off wide shoulders. Then the footsteps on the creaking stairs.
13th November, 1931
Watery early autumn sunshine flooded through the window as Eileen walked into the kitchen. She sighed. The brown paper package on the kitchen table contained Samuel’s lunch; he’d left for work without it.
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 3
