The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘Vincent,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Vincent, love, come in here a moment, will you?’

  The boy sat on the yard wall watching the neighbour release his pigeons for their morning exercise. The flock exploded into the air with a clatter of stiff-feathered wings and wheeled around the chimneys. Vincent followed their jostling flight as they circled the neighbourhood, wondering at the way they tilted and arched their wings in the air as they swooped to land on the roof ridge opposite.

  ‘What for?’ Vincent called back, his eyes still fixed on the birds.

  ‘Just come here will you?’

  Vincent swung his legs over the wall, dropped to the yard and sauntered inside.

  ‘What?’

  ‘First, get your hands out of your pockets’ – his mother advanced on him and grabbed his jaw in her left hand – ‘and then’ – she moistened the corner of her apron with saliva and wiped a grubby smudge from Vincent’s forehead – ‘take your father’s lunch to the slaughterhouse on your way to school.’

  Vincent froze at her words. The daytime belonged to him. When his father left the house the man ceased to exist until the evening. This wasn’t fair.

  ‘Yes, mother,’ he croaked.

  She handed him the package and guided him out the door.

  Vincent walked down the alley behind the houses. The pigeons burst from their roost into another crazy, milling circle. Vincent passed beneath, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He dragged onto the main road and down the hill past The Jolly Sailors, along the edge of the graveyard and down the lane to the slaughterhouse gates.

  Built without the need for beauty, the large brick building sat squat and forbidding, its high-set frosted windows hiding its daily machinations. Vincent fought to control his breathing.

  Red wooden gates breached the tall wall surrounding the abattoir yard. One gate held a low door for access. Vincent ducked through the door.

  Scattered dung soiled the cobbles and across the yard the top section of the slaughterhouse stable door stood open. Vincent fell forward into his first step and lurched towards the door. His nostrils flared at a strange, cloying odour that clung to the hairs in his nose. He reached the opening and stopped.

  A narrow doorway with a spring-loaded gate connected a small stable to the slaughterhouse. His father stood at the gate with bloodied hands fumbling to reload his bolt-gun. Securing the new charge in the breech, he reached over to open the gate. Through the gap Vincent could see young pigs in a huddled mass, their eyes flashing with fear. One of the beasts took the bait and bolted for freedom. The big man reacted, jammed the creature against the door-jamb with his knee and pushed the bolt-gun against the back of the pig’s skull. The crack of the cartridge cut short the animal’s squealing. In one smooth movement Samuel took up the spike dangling by a cord from his belt and plunged it through the creature’s throat.

  Samuel stepped back, bending to reload the gun. The pig dropped onto its side and the gate slammed shut to squeals of alarm from the corralled swine. The stunned animal thrashed as a fountain of blood hosed from the hole in its neck. The pig’s legs kicked in a parody of flight and the body slipped across the blood-lubricated floor. The first slow, sliding motion evolved into a languorous spin. Vincent looked across the chamber to his father’s previous two victims. They rotated still, intermittent spurts of blood pulsing from their dying hearts. Vincent looked back to his father as he reached out again for the gate. His face bore an expression Vincent recognised. Dropping the brown paper package Vincent ran for the gate.

  15th November, 1931

  Andrew reached the top of the hill and looked out towards the perimeter track. The cycle ride felt longer. Perhaps he missed Peter’s company, or maybe the weight of guilt dragged him back.

  Nothing moved across the airfield, but the small boy who still lived inside Andrew demanded he pause and look. Andrew breathed in the earthy silence of the autumn fields, turned and pedalled off down the road. No barley water at the perimeter fence today; this morning he’d go through the main gate.

  The barbed-wire fence marched across the countryside dividing the airfield’s rough grass from the cultivated soil of the surrounding fields. The fence cut a diagonal towards Andrew and for the next half-mile it ran along parallel to the road’s edge. Buildings became visible in the distance, some made of brick with window frames painted green, and beyond them, in the middle distance, far larger buildings without windows. Andrew’s heart quickened at the thought of what those hangars contained and, by the time the fence gave way to a gate, all traces of guilt had evaporated.

  The guard stepped forward from his hut as Andrew approached. ‘Yes son, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve come to join the RAF.’

  Chapter 4

  Portentum

  7th March, 1934

  Vincent fell from his seat and crumpled onto the floor. He huddled into a ball, his limbs twisting against his body. His eyes rolled back into his head and a line of drool strung from his mouth to the floorboards. The whole class sat in silence, mesmerised by the display.

  ‘You, boy’ – the teacher broke the spell – ‘sit on him and hold his arms still so he doesn’t hurt himself. Hurry up!’

  The teacher grabbed the wooden ruler from Vincent’s desk. Kneeling beside the stricken boy, he helped bring Vincent’s flailing limbs under control and pushed the ruler between Vincent’s grinding teeth. Unsure what to do, the teacher supported Vincent’s head to protect him against the jerking spasms lashing up through his neck.

  ‘What’s wrong with him, sir?’ asked the frightened voice of a girl in the next row of desks.

  ‘He’s fainted, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s funny fainted’ – a different voice, this time a boy – ‘my auntie’s always fainting and she don’t dance around like a monkey.’

  ‘Be quiet and open a window, boy.’

  As suddenly as it began, the seizure passed. Vincent’s quaking limbs stilled and the ruler dropped from his mouth.

  ‘All right son, you can leave go now.’

  As his reluctant helper scrambled to get off Vincent, the teacher glanced at his watch. ‘Class dismissed, early lunch everybody, we’ll continue this afterwards.’ The room erupted into cacophony as 35 children closed their books, slammed their desks and scraped their chair legs on the floor in their hurry to leave. As the last pupil trailed out of the door Vincent regained consciousness.

  ‘Are you all right, Drew?’ The teacher bent to help Vincent sit up.

  For a moment Vincent remained suspended in his daze, then snapped to attention as he remembered where he was. ‘I’m not mad, sir.’ Desperation scraped Vincent’s voice.

  ‘Of course you’re not mad, Vincent. Get up off the floor, boy. I’ll call the doctor.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But Vincent, you need—’

  ‘No. Please don’t tell anyone, sir. It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  Vincent burned with defenceless shame and fear. He couldn’t go to a doctor. He couldn’t face the questions.

  ‘I’m fine, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Vincent stood and wobbled towards the door.

  His teacher watched him go.

  The fresh air revived Vincent and the slick of sweat on his forehead grew cold and evaporated. His classmates stood talking in small groups, and as he emerged they turned to stare. An uneasy quiet fell across the playground. One voice broke the silence.

  ‘Vincent is a looney, Vincent is a looney…’

  Others joined in and the chorus grew in volume.

  ‘Vincent is a looney, Vincent is a looney…’

  The litany droned on in its own pointless spiral and with the security of their growing number the children’s chanting rose in volume.

  ‘Vincent is a looney, Vincent is a looney…’

  Vincent stood with his head hung down like a human sacrifice before the altar, helpless against the sheer weight of his classmates’ derision. On it
went until the strident clatter of the dinner bell cut across its rhythm and his tormentors broke into a run for the dining hall.

  Vincent stood alone, staring at the ground.

  ****

  Eileen walked into the kitchen and peeped out the window. He was there, perched on the wall like some shabby little vulture. Vincent, the best thing she’d ever done. She closed her eyes and enjoyed an up-swell of pride.

  The light from the setting sun faded, draping layers of gloom over the back yard. Vincent sat hunched on the wall, his back to the kitchen door. The pigeons had roosted, so instead he tracked the gulls trailing through the darkening sky on their way back to the sea. Great V-shaped formations of a hundred birds or more straggled and jostled in their procession towards the coast.

  As he stared skywards Vincent’s vision blurred with tears. His head throbbed from the episode in the classroom.

  ‘Oh, mother,’ he murmured into his own misery.

  9th March, 1934

  Bob and Mary Donaldson sat on the porch, keeping an eye on the road. The yard had seen few changes in the two and a half years since Max had whisked away their son. They’d relished his visits each Christmas, but this time he was back for a whole month.

  They had no idea which vehicle would deliver their hitch-hiking son. They let the sparse traffic flow past until one truck stopped by their gate. A familiar figure stepped out and closed the door, they stood and walked up the drive to greet him.

  ‘How’s my Gerry?’ His mother pulled him into a hug. ‘And how’s Devline?’

  ‘I’m fine, she’s fine, Max is fine. How are you?’

  Gerry kissed his mother and turned to shake his father’s hand.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Son.’ His father returned Gerry’s handshake and reached to take his bag. ‘What’s new?’

  Gerry put one arm around his father’s shoulders and the other around his mother’s waist and together they walked back up the drive towards the house.

  ‘Good news. Max is expanding the business and making me the airfield manager.’

  ‘Do I hear bells?’ his mother asked at once.

  Gerry smiled; there’d be a whole month of wedding hints. ‘No, not yet Ma. And it’s not because I wouldn’t. It’s just with Devline’s mother being sick and needing her help, well, it just wouldn’t be fair. We’ll just have to wait a while.’

  They continued swapping news over lunch, and as Mary cleared away the plates Gerry mentioned the newspapers he’d read at the airfield and the stories about the ‘new age’ of European politics.

  His father sighed and swirled his coffee dregs. ‘There’s no benefit in getting mixed up in Europe again,’ Bob said. ‘We left far too many good men there last time, and where did it get us?’

  Gerry nodded but looked his father in the eye.

  ‘I think it needs to be watched, Dad. That’s all.’

  ‘Watching it is fine, son. God knows, we should’ve carried on watching in 1917.’

  ****

  As the days passed Mary found herself drawn to Gerry’s side. This month was an unexpected bonus and she wanted to make the most of it. She talked with him as he worked, occasionally holding something steady while he sawed or hammered. She soaked up every tale he told about his life on the airfield, particularly the stories about Floyd and Winston.

  Two weeks into his visit Mary found herself drinking coffee with Gerry on the porch during a break from his work. The small talk lapsed and Mary gave voice to a vague concern nibbling at her conscience.

  ‘You will be fair with Devline, won’t you, Gerry?’ Her question was vague enough to avoid embarrassment if its meaning was missed.

  ‘I love her too much to cause her any trouble, Mom.’ Gerry avoided his mother’s gaze, preferring to study the depths of his half empty mug.

  Mary nodded but did not relent. ‘It’s been over two years now.’ Again, her phrasing took the sting out of the unasked question.

  Gerry paused before he answered. ‘We’ve kissed and cuddled, sure. But I do know the right order of things, Mom.’ Embarrassment crept into Gerry’s voice.

  ‘Do you need to speak with your father?’

  Gerry burst out laughing. He cupped his mother’s face with his hands and shook his head in mock disapproval.

  ‘Have you not listened to a word I’ve said about Floyd and Winston?’

  15th July, 1934

  Floyd and Winston sat huddled over a grimy newspaper. They looked up as Gerry entered the canteen. Winston’s permanent smile was missing.

  ‘What’s up, fellas’?’

  ‘Damned Germans have started killing each other,’ Floyd muttered. ‘Listen to this: ‘Reports are reaching this news office of an incident, or series of incidents, involving German military and political figures which has left a number of them dead and many more in prison. Many political dissidents are also reported as imprisoned or missing. Adolf Hitler has proclaimed: “There won’t be another revolution in Germany for the next thousand years”.’

  Floyd shook his head in the heavy silence. ‘What the hell is going on over there, Gerry? What kind of way is that to run a country?’

  ‘Maybe Congress will do something about it.’ Gerry leaned over the paper.

  Floyd narrowed his eyes. ‘They sucked us in back in 1917.’ Floyd stabbed the paper with his finger. ‘If they go again, they’ll go without us.’ His voice held an edge.

  Winston fidgeted, unable to offer an opinion to change the balance of the conversation and uncomfortable about staying silent.

  Gerry spoke up on impulse. ‘If it’s worth the fight, Floyd, there’ll always be people willing to go.’

  For a moment the silence hardened, then Floyd broke the spell with a rare grin. ‘Maybe, boy. But I’m too old to get involved in any more fighting. And I’ve got flat feet. That’s why I’m in the air force.’

  Winston loosed a bark of laughter and the two men stood to leave.

  ‘The air force.’ Winston chuckled as he passed Gerry on his way to the door. ‘Can you believe it, Gerry? The air force.’

  Winston’s chuckling faded as the door swung closed behind him. Gerry sat down and picked up the newspaper. He scanned the article Floyd had read out, pausing over the unfamiliar German names and wondering how a government could spend a night murdering people and carry on the next day as normal.

  16th July, 1934

  The Avro Tutor rolled to a halt and Andrew launched into the shutdown procedure. A tap on his flying helmet interrupted him. He craned his head over his shoulder and looked at the instructor in the rear cockpit.

  ‘Let me get clear’ – the man shouted above the noise. He pointed to himself and then to the ground – ‘then take the circuit.’

  Andrew nodded and turned to face the front. His mouth dried out. Here it was, the chance to write ‘first solo’ in his logbook.

  The instructor scuttled away from the aircraft, pulled off his helmet and waved him away. Andrew released the brakes and taxied to the end of the runway.

  Reaching the downwind end of the field he kicked the rudder and turned the nose crosswind. Breathing deeply to steady his nerves Andrew went through the final cockpit checks.

  Routine actions took on a new significance. His eyes flitted over the petrol gauge and oil pressure gauge; he revved the engine and listened to its tone. Finally he gave a sharp tug on each side of his safety harness. Satisfied, he scanned the sky to his left for anything coming in to land. The clear summer sky held nothing but a few wispy clouds.

  Andrew kicked the rudder and opened the throttle and in one smooth motion the bi-plane turned into the wind and rolled forward. He picked a tree beyond the airfield’s perimeter as his marker. As the plane accelerated across the grass he touched the rudder to keep it travelling straight towards the tree.

  Judging his speed sufficient, he nudged the control column very slightly forward. The tail lifted in response. Andrew concentrated on the distant tree, pushing and pulling with his feet on the rudder
to maintain his course.

  The suggestion of buoyancy crept into the aircraft. He eased the control column back and the wheels left the ground. The Trainer yawed as it settled into the wind and climbed away from the field.

  21st August, 1934

  Vincent strode past his old school’s gates on his way to the bakery. He didn’t glance into the playground; schooldays were over, today he was on his way to get a job.

  Vincent had spotted the notice on the bakery gate that morning and ran home to wash his face and clean his shoes. Now as he hurried down the hill into town, he marvelled at his own implacable determination to get the job.

  The notice was still in place on the bakery gate. He sighed in relief, tore it from the drawing pins, pushed open the gate and entered the yard. Crossing to the bakery, he glanced through windows almost wholly obscured by flour dust. At this time of day the bakery was not busy, but Vincent could make out one shadowy figure moving about inside.

  He steeled himself and knocked. The door swung inwards, exhaling a breath of warm air, piquant with the sweetly sour fragrance of bread yeast. The baker’s face, framed with grey hair, sported streaks of flour but, despite the heat, no sweat disturbed the dust on his visage.

  ‘Yes?’

  Vincent handed him the notice.

  The baker looked down at the paper, looked back at Vincent and beckoned the boy into the building.

  Vincent followed, closing the door. For a long moment the transition from bright August sunshine to the bakery’s gloomy twilight defeated his vision. Gradually the details of the room resolved around the white-overalled bulk of the baker.

  ‘It’s hard work, lad, and at this time of year the heat gets something terrible’ – an undercurrent of sadness ran through the man’s voice – ‘and you’ll be starting at 10 o’clock of an evening and working through to 9 o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll take the job,’ said Vincent, his voice steady and confident. ‘When do I start?’

  ‘Well, come back tonight and we’ll give you a try for the rest of the week. How does that sound?’

  ‘Thank you, sir. That’s just perfect.’