The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  As the plane moved across the grass the nose crept out to the left. Normally Gerry would correct this with the rudder control on his side of the cabin. This time he let the aircraft drift. Beamish darted his eyes from one dial to the next as if he’d lost something.

  Gerry’s foot hovered over the rudder.

  Beamish glanced up and saw the swerve. He kicked the rudder, over-compensating. The nose swung to the right and the starboard wing dipped towards the ground. Beamish kicked opposite rudder. The plane wallowed back to a straight course and picked up speed.

  Beamish glanced down at the airspeed indicator. Satisfied he had sufficient speed, he eased the column forward to raise the tail. Gerry eyed his pupil’s trembling hands; an exaggerated move would drive the nose too far down and put the propeller into the ground. Beamish held his nerve and the tail rose off the grass. He eased the column back and the main wheels followed. He’d moved too early and the wheels dropped to the grass again. Beamish let the speed build a bit more before lifting the machine off the ground and staying airborne.

  As they gained height Gerry looked at his pupil. Beamish had stopped trembling and fidgeting, he’d stopped cooing and chuckling. The rapt concentration on the big man’s face suggested Mr Beamish had become a flyer. Gerry smiled and relaxed. The first part of the gamble had paid off.

  ‘Okay, Mr Beamish,’ Gerry shouted over the engine’s din, ‘let’s take her round in a wide left-hand circuit and land her.’

  His pupil’s face stayed rock solid but his eyes darted sideways at Gerry in trepidation.

  ‘Come on, Mr Beamish,’ Gerry shouted, ‘you’ve spent long enough enjoying your flying lessons. It’s time to enjoy being a pilot.’

  Beamish gave a stiff nod and turned into the circuit. Gerry sat back, his muscles tightened in apprehension. He’d instructed Beamish on the procedures for landing many times, but the man had never landed without assistance.

  Grim concentration creased the pupil’s brow as the plane banked into the landing approach.

  ‘Relax into it, Mr Beamish. You are part of the machine.’

  Beamish throttled back and lost height, settling into a shallow glide. He dropped the flaps as he crossed the airfield’s boundary. Correcting a slight yaw with a touch of rudder he allowed the plane to sink to within a yard of the ground. Easing back on the column he held the plane off until it stalled and sank to the grass. Gerry released a deep breath as Beamish brought the plane to halt.

  ‘Well done, Mr Beamish. Let me get out and you can do it all again on your own.’

  Gerry smiled into his pupil’s pallid face, undid his straps and opened the door. Once clear, Gerry gave Beamish a wave and watched him taxi back to the end of the runway. The engine pitch gunned higher and the Brougham ran into the wind for a smooth take off.

  The sound of the plane’s engine mingled with another and Max pulled up in the truck, a tin of coffee on the passenger seat. He squinted skywards at the climbing trainer.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Mr Beamish,’ Gerry replied.

  Max shook his head: ‘Gerry, either you really are a genius or you’ll be buying me a new plane tomorrow.’

  Gerry looked back to the sky as Beamish lined up for his first solo landing.

  24th May, 1936

  Every 20 yards across the field a white pole stuck up from the grass. Atop each pole sat two horn-shaped loudspeakers, each bedecked with red, white and blue ribbons. They spewed out marching music in a haunting, tinny register. Between each pole white rope hung looped at waist height.

  Behind the rope stood a bank of spectators ten deep, all dressed in their Sunday best. Families had picnics laid out amongst the throng, couples stood arm in arm sharing binoculars, and small groups of uniformed servicemen mingled throughout the crowd. Just in front of the rope a line of small boys sat cross-legged or lay prone with chins cupped in hands, staking out the best view possible. Away and beyond them stretched Biggin Hill airfield and its runway. In the distance, at the end of the runway, stood six silver fighter planes. Their engine noise drifted across the field, causing a ripple of anticipation to run through the crowd.

  The ghostly marching band was interrupted as a man’s voice crackled over the Tannoy:

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Good afternoon and welcome to our Empire Day air pageant for 1936. To begin today’s flying exhibition, we have members of 64 Squadron who, until recently, served as sentinels of the Empire stationed in Egypt, bravely guarding British possessions against the menace of Italian invasion. Let’s give them a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen please, as they take off in their Demon fighters.’

  Andrew, leading the second section of three aircraft, sat in the vibrating cockpit with eyes fixed on the control tower. Nerves nibbled at his stomach. On his port side sat Alan Gold, on his starboard side, George Anders, both watching him intently. The seconds ticked on and the oil temperature crept higher. At last a flare launched from the control tower’s balcony and barrelled skywards leaving a spiral of black smoke drifting across the sky. The flare curved lazily at the top of its trajectory and blossomed into a bright green ball – the signal to go.

  Andrew eased the throttle forward and held his left arm straight in the air, his anxiety melting with the sudden ability to act. He fixed his attention on Squadron Leader Fenton at the head and centre of the section of three Demons ahead. Fenton also had his left arm raised. He glanced left, then right and dropped his arm. Fenton’s three fighters surged forward across the grass. Andrew sat clenched in his cockpit, his aircraft straining against its brakes.

  Seeing the leader’s arm fall, Andrew began his countdown: ‘One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand.’

  Andrew dropped his own arm, released the brakes and pushed the throttle fully open. His section charged across the grass, tight on the tails of the others.

  ****

  Molly Lloyd tottered on tiptoe as the engine noise grew louder, but could see nothing. She stood a little over 5ft tall and was stuck behind the wall of spectators. Suddenly three silver aircraft surged into the air above their heads, moving fast from right to left. She gasped as three more bi-planes followed them.

  The racket of aero-engines intensified as the tight-packed formation banked to starboard away from the crowd. Molly stood rapt at the impossible spectacle and her back tingled with excitement. She watched the planes bob and drift in their places, sweeping through a wide climbing turn. As the formation wheeled further to the right and out of sight, Molly elbowed her way through the press of people.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen’ – the Tannoy sounded feeble after the aural assault of six radial engines – ‘the squadron will now demonstrate the fate awaiting any enemy bombers who dare to venture into their territory. The first section will play the part of the enemy bombers and the second section will be our defending fighters.’

  Andrew raised his arm into the buffeting slipstream, then dropped his hand back onto the controls to peel his section off from the formation and lead them into a full-power climb away from the airfield. The remaining three fighters in the leading section throttled back and formed up in line astern. Reaching the pre-planned altitude, Andrew levelled out his formation and circled.

  ‘There they are, ladies and gentlemen’ – the Tannoy rang out – ‘the fighter section has mounted a standing patrol to defend the innocent civilian population from the ravages of indiscriminate enemy bomber attack.’

  Molly reached the rope barrier and gazed up at the silver shapes circling overhead.

  ‘What’s this, ladies and gentlemen? Look out, here come those bombers!’

  Andrew waved his hand in a circle above his head. Alan and George dropped out of their V formation and reformed in line astern behind him. Looking down he picked out the three mock-bombers approaching the far end of the field. Judging his moment, Andrew rolled his bi-plane onto its back and pulled it into a dive towards the field, targeting the first Demon in the lumbering formatio
n. Swooping down behind it he let the other plane grow to fill his sights.

  ‘Dacka dacka dacka dacka! Ha-Haaarrrgh!’ Andrew pulled up from the attack, his shout whipping away in the slipstream. He craned his neck backwards to see the squadron leader turn on his smoke canister and sink out of the formation trailing white fumes.

  Andrew peeled up and over the crowd, followed seconds later by Alan attacking the second craft in the lumbering formation. Then George despatched the third bomber and followed them over the crowd line.

  ‘It’s all over, ladies and gentlemen. Shot from the sky like pigeons. These are three bombers who won’t trouble us again.’

  The three vanquished Demons trailed their smoke over a tree-line and out of sight of the crowd. Flying low, they banked around for a landing at the far end of the airfield. Andrew’s formation skirted low in the other direction and moved to line abreast for a low pass over the airfield.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a cheer for our gallant defenders!’

  The three planes flying wingtip to wingtip, no more than 30ft above the grass, roared across the field in front of the crowd. Andrew, flying in the middle of the three, pulled up into a shallow climb and barrelled into a victory roll. Alan and George broke away simultaneously in banking climbs, one to starboard and one to port.

  Molly jumped up and down and waved with the rest, shouting and whooping at the top of her voice. Some people turned to stare at her but she didn’t care. She yearned to reach out and catch hold of the pilots’ white overalls, to be whisked off the ground with their power and borne away. She gazed at the leading silver plane climbing away from its victory roll and her vision blurred with unexpected tears.

  Andrew throttled back and flew straight and level until his wingmen came into formation. He led them in a shallow bank, down behind the tree-line and into a concealed approach to land. Once safely down, the three pilots taxied away from the runway under the watchful guidance of ground coordinators.

  As Andrew went through his shutdown procedures the air reverberated with the loud bark of ignition cartridges firing up the engines of aircraft preparing to take-off for the next display. Andrew climbed down onto the grass and one of the ground crew escorted the three flyers between the closely-packed planes to the pilots’ tent.

  Bryan Hale emerged from the tent, sipping from a tin mug. He grimaced his displeasure: ‘Ah, if it isn’t Count Von bloody Richthofen and his Flying Circus Clowns. You do realise I was flying bomber number two, don’t you? You nearly knocked my bloody prop off with your tail-plane.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bryan.’ Andrew smiled and slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Whites of their eyes and all that kind of stuff. We don’t want to waste the King’s ammunition, do we?’

  ‘Ammunition?’ Bryan goggled his eyes in mock amazement. ‘If you get that close, you’ll be able to fart them out of the sky.’

  Andrew barked a short laugh and walked into the tent: ‘You’re just jealous of my flying. What’s to drink?’

  Bryan followed. ‘Don’t ask me about flying, old son. Apparently, I’m just a bloody bomber pilot. And it’s tea I’m afraid. Something about driving a plane later on.’

  Squadron Leader Fenton walked into the tent and called for attention.

  ‘All right 64 Squadron, good show. We have to be ready for the grand finale fly-past in two hours. Which means you can go for a stroll around the field and stretch your legs for one hour. One hour only please. Be polite to people and’ – he looked directly at Bryan – ‘don’t accept any drinks from the adoring populace.’

  Bryan huffed and turned to Andrew: ‘So remind me why we joined the RAF?’

  Andrew took the tin mug out of Bryan’s hand and placed it on the trestle tables.

  ‘To shoot down bombers, my friend. Come on let’s go and meet the grateful masses.’

  The two men walked out of the tent, flashed their passes to the stewards at the entrance and strode out into the milling crowd. Their white flying overalls marked them out like beacons and the crowd moved and swilled around them.

  ‘Hello!’

  Andrew stumbled to a halt as the girl appeared in front of him.

  ‘Whoa, hello.’ He fought to regain his balance, then looked down into the girl’s face. ‘I’m sorry. Hello to you too.’

  Bryan slewed to a halt, turning to watch.

  ‘You were flying!’ Excitement animated Molly’s face.

  Andrew smiled and nodded.

  ‘Which one were you?’

  Andrew became acutely aware that Bryan was glaring at him over the girl’s shoulder. It wasn’t the best situation to use a phrase like ‘fighter leader’. Andrew caught Bryan’s eye for a fleeting instant before he responded.

  ‘Which do you think?’

  ‘I know which one you were. It shows.’

  Her forthright confidence caught Andrew off-guard and she smiled at his confusion.

  ‘I’m a hairdresser. I’m used to reading people.’

  A mane of auburn hair, shining in the spring sunshine, framed the girl’s laughing eyes. The front of her patterned cotton dress heaved slightly with her breathing.

  Andrew opened his mouth to speak but the girl reached up and placed soft fingers across his lips. ‘You were the defender in the middle. I know it.’ She blushed, taking her hand from Andrew’s face.

  ‘I’m sorry. My name is Molly. If you need a haircut…’ She pressed a business card into his hand.

  ‘Thank you, but the RAF usually takes care of the hair.’

  Bryan’s voice cut between them. ‘Come on, old man’ – he pointed at his watch – ‘can we move on? We’ve got an hour, remember?’

  ‘Sorry, Bryan. Yes.’ He turned back to the girl. ‘I’m sorry, Molly.’ He surrendered to a sudden impulse, took her hand and kissed it.

  Bryan walked off and Andrew hurried to catch him, tucking the card into his breast pocket.

  The pilots vanished amongst the milling bodies while Molly swayed slightly where she stood, watching the crowd swallow them away. A woman looked at her and laughed into her gloved hand. Molly’s cheeks flushed crimson in sudden embarrassment and she headed for the exit.

  Andrew caught up with Bryan and fell into step beside him.

  ‘I thought she was rather nice,’ he said.

  Bryan glanced sideways at his companion: ‘A bit forward, don’t you think?’

  ‘She’s a hairdresser, Bryan. They’re trained to be like that.’ He took the card out of his pocket and placed it carefully into his wallet.

  ****

  Molly walked down the empty road back towards the village. The whites and purples of wild spring flowers splashed the hedgerows and bees laid a heavy buzzing through the leaves. Recovered from her embarrassment she thought back to her encounter.

  The handsome young pilot had an open and kind face and his stocky body looked safe and dependable in his white overalls. For a moment Molly thrilled at the thought of him dressed in uniform. She smiled at her silliness and blushed anew at the memory of his kiss on her hand. It had been so perfect and too brief.

  The noise of swooping, snarling engines persisted behind her until she reached the village green, the distance integrating their noise as brief crescendos amidst the insects’ hum.

  A swallow dived towards the grass and flitted backwards and forwards, barely an inch above the turf, hunting for insects. Molly watched the iridescent blues and purples on its back flash and meld in the sunlight. She followed it with her eyes until the speed of the bird made her dizzy. Laughing to herself she sank to her knees and enjoyed the giddy feeling. Turning her face to the sky she spoke out loud in a voice tinged sombre: ‘Please make him call.’

  1st July, 1936

  Bryan looked up from his hand of cards to see Andrew gazing out the window.

  ‘It’s your turn.’ A touch of acid sizzled in Bryan’s voice.

  ‘Oh, sorry, old man.’ Andrew checked his cards. ‘Mmmm, still can’t go.’

  ‘Then you ne
ed to pick up.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Sorry.’

  Bryan flipped his cards onto the table. ‘What’s wrong with you, Andrew? It’s like being handcuffed to a post.’ Bryan took one of Andrew’s cigarettes and lit it. ‘Is it that bloody hairdressing floozy?’

  ‘She isn’t a floozy.’

  ‘Ah. Bingo.’ Bryan tipped his chair back and blew a long arc of smoke over his head. ‘So is it love, then?’

  ‘How can it be?’ Andrew leaned forward onto the card table: ‘We talked for no more than a minute.’

  ‘So what’s the flap? Forget her.’

  ‘That’s the problem, Bryan.’ Andrew lit a cigarette. ‘She keeps barging her way into my thoughts.’

  Bryan collected the cards from the table. ‘You can borrow my car anytime, you know,’ he said, shuffling the pack. ‘Go and see her. Clear your head.’ He stopped shuffling and arched an eyebrow: ‘You might even get a haircut.’

  ****

  The telephone jangled on the wall, catching Molly halfway through rolling a curler into her customer’s grey hair. The telephone fell silent for a second and jangled again.

  ‘Just a moment, just a moment…’ Molly panted through a mouthful of hairpins. She finished the curler and impaled it into position with a pin. Dropping the other hairpins onto her tray she grabbed the telephone from its cradle halfway through the fourth ring.

  ‘Hello, Lloyd’s hairdressing, Molly speaking. How can I help?’

  A momentary silence crackled at the end of the line before an unfamiliar voice spoke up.

  ‘Is it all right to visit your shop even if I don’t need a haircut?’

  Molly frowned: ‘Why would you want to do that, sir?’

  ‘I got the impression you would quite like me to.’

  Molly’s back stiffened.

  ‘Who’s calling, please?’ This time the answer came immediately.

  ‘My name’s Andrew. You gave me your card when we spoke at the air pageant. I’m so sorry if I’ve misunderstood, only I’ve got some leave to take and I thought I might drop by and take you to lunch or something. I’m so sorry if—’