A Talent for Loving

by Celia Scott

  '… and if that's the case there's no reason why I shouldn't go back to my own apartment,' Polly heard Sable say.

  'Not now,' Flint pleaded. 'Go in to town as much as you want—but I need you here more than ever.' He sounded quite agitated, and Sable gave a low chuckle before saying:

  'I'd no idea you were so old-fashioned, Flint.' He gave a muffled reply and she continued, 'Well, okay, if it means that much to you, I'll stay.'

  Polly heard him mutter, 'Bless you, Sable,' and, feeling she had intruded too long on a private conversation, she cleared her throat loudly to let them know they could be overheard.

  Joining them on the porch she noticed that Sable's brightly painted lips were curved in amusement, but Flint looked far from cheerful, and Polly had to admit she didn't blame him. Sable certainly hadn't seemed very romantic in her response to his heartfelt plea to remain at Crabtree Farm. No wonder he was in such a subdued frame of mind. For although he wasn't as gloomy as he had been last night, he was still a long way from the happy-go-lucky Flint of old.

  Not that Polly was feeling any too chipper herself. The prospect of a ride in Flint's plane didn't exactly thrill her, and when she saw it standing on the runway she didn't feel much better: it was very pretty, glittering silver and turquoise in the sunshine, but it looked so fragile! It didn't seem possible it could get up off the ground, and it was with grave misgivings that she clambered aboard.

  The engine started with a roar, and the little craft taxied to the end of the runway to await permission for take-off. Flint, wearing earphones in order to listen in on the radio traffic, gave her a brief smile and nodded encouragingly.

  When permission came the little plane gave a shudder and hurled itself down the asphalt. Polly was sure they were going to drive straight into the water, but before they reached the end of the runway the ground miraculously dropped away and they were airborne.

  They circled over Hanlan's Point, and some people sunning themselves on the beach below shaded their eyes to look at the plane above them. A group of children stopped digging in the sand and waved. But Polly was still holding on to the sides of her seat, her knuckles white, and did not return their greeting. Cautiously she looked down. The tops of the trees looked like soft green bundles of cloth.

  Flint circled away from the lake towards the city itself, and they started to gain altitude.

  'Where are we going?' Polly shouted over the roar as they passed the tall needle of Toronto's C.N. Tower.

  'Manitoulin Island!' he cried back. 'Rainbow Country.'

  A tremor of excitement ran through her and she began to feel less nervous. She had always been fascinated by the idea of Northern Ontario, and the area called Rainbow Country particularly attracted her, for it was known to be spectacularly beautiful and rich with legend. The land of the North American Indian. Land of forests, rainbow-spangled waterfalls, and lakes that take their names from the old Ojibway tongue. And Manitoulin, the world's largest freshwater island, with its thousand miles of coastline and peaceful little towns and villages, bounded on one side by Georgian Bay, and on the other by the twenty-three thousand square miles of mighty Lake Huron.

  She relaxed her grip of the sides of her seat and peered down at the city. The skyscrapers looked like a set of children's building blocks from the air, and she felt she could stretch out her hand and pick up one of the tiny cars bustling along the busy highways, they looked so small. Flint had been right—this was nothing like climbing trees. This was fun! And by the time they were flying over Caledon, and he had dipped lower to give her an aerial view of the farm, she was thoroughly enjoying herself.

  Now the little towns grew sparser and the green of the forests more dense. Ahead of them Georgian Bay shone like crumpled silver foil. When they reached it, Flint headed west.,

  'Want to get some shots of Flowerpot Island, off Tobermory!' he shouted, and she nodded and reached into the back seat for her clipboard and his camera.

  Over the remarkable water-worn rock chimneys, which resembled giant flowerpots and gave this island its name, he stabilised the plane and, opening his side window, took photos for a minute before returning to the controls. The air blowing into the tiny cabin was cool and sweet, and Polly wondered how on earth she could ever have dreaded this experience.

  'Oh, look!' She pointed down to the crystal clear water below where a large white ship ploughed its way over the bay, leaving a wake of swirling foam behind it.

  'It's the Big Canoe,' Flint shouted, 'the ferry to Manitoulin.'

  'It's beautiful!' she shouted back happily. Meaning not just the ship, or the flight, but also sharing this with him. She could think of no one else who could have helped her conquer her fear so easily. And there was certainly nobody she would rather have been with.

  'Like flying?' he asked her.

  'I love it!'

  He broke into laughter. 'I told you you would. It's a lot safer than riding your bike, let me tell you!'

  Smiling, Polly made a face at him and returned her attention to the scene beneath her. They were flying north again now, and she could see the contour of Manitoulin Island in the distance. It seemed that everywhere she looked, her eye was greeted with the glint and hue of water. Closer to Manitoulin itself, she could make out the countless little islands that ringed it, like a flotilla of small craft around a majestic liner.

  They flew over the island, and Flint took photographs of Onaping Falls, where the Onaping river drops a hundred and fifty feet in one foaming plunge. And the sandy beaches of Providence Bay, and the lighthouse at treacherous Mississaugi Strait, where the French explorer La Salle's boat Griffin was wrecked in 1670.

  It was dusk when they turned back for Toronto. It seemed to Polly that the water was choppier than it had been, but it was hard to see in the gathering dark. In any case, she wasn't worried, for the little plane seemed to her now as stable as granite as it buzzed its way over the vast expanse of water below. Then, without an warning at all, the engine faltered and coughed into silence. The only sound now was the whistling of the wind as they started to lose height.

  Flint began to flip the switch on the plane's electronic locator transmitter, at the same time radioing the international distress signal—'Mayday'. Polly could hear a loud 'whooping' noise from the earphones he had pulled off.

  'Flint! What's happening?' she screamed.

  'We're going to ditch in the lake,' he said, reaching in behind her seat where the life raft was stowed. 'Strap in tightly, fold your arms across your forehead and lean forward and rest on the panel. When the plane stops bouncing, open the door and get out fast!'

  Horrified, Polly took a quick glance into the darkness before she obeyed his command. It seemed to her that the crested tops of sizeable waves seemed to be rushing towards them at alarming speed.

  Before she had time to dwell on this unpleasant phenomenon, the belly of the aircraft hit the lake with a shuddering thump. Water started to swamp the cabin, swirling round their ankles in a rushing flood.

  'Quick!' said Flint urgently, 'we're going down.' Swiftly he activated the CO2 bottle to inflate the raft, and, opening her door, threw it out, pushing her after it. 'Here!' He reached for the survival kit which had been stored next to the raft. 'Hang on to that!' and heaving the life-raft clear of the sinking plane, he dove into the water.

  'Flint!' shrieked Polly, for the raft was bobbing up and down on the choppy waves and she couldn't see him. 'Flint!… Oh, my God!… Flint, where are you?'

  'I'm here. Don't panic' His voice was close, and she now saw that he had swum to her and was clinging to the side of the raft. 'There isn't room for both of us, we'll have to take turns in the water. If you can swim, that is.'

  She said, 'Y—yes. I'm a very g—good swimmer,' and then she gulped hard, for she was so happy to know that he was safe she felt quite tearful.

  She noticed that the raft was equipped with a pair of collapsible oars clipped to the inside, and she asked if she should row.

  'Not much po
int,' replied Flint, pulling himself into a more secure position. 'We don't know where we're going. Save your energy for when we sight land.'

  She peered into the blackness, trying to see the shape of the plane, but it had disappeared. It was hard to see very far since it was a moonless night and the water was quite rough. The raft kept being lifted up on the crests of waves, then sucked down into watery troughs again. Flint had his elbows hooked over the rim of the raft. He was wearing a bright yellow jacket, which made it easier for her to see him, and after a while her eyes began to get used to the dark.

  'Where are we?' she asked.

  'In Lake Huron.'

  'I know that!' she said shortly. Now that the shock of the forced landing was past, she was feeling irritable. 'Where in Lake Huron?'

  'I don't know for sure. Near Tobermory is my guess.' He tightened his hold on the life raft as a larger wave buffeted them. 'There are lots of islands around. We should sight one soon. When we do, we'll land and make camp.' He sounded quite matter-of-fact, and this calmed her.

  She remembered his pretty little plane sinking without a trace and felt a stab of contrition for her bad temper. Putting her hand on his wet arm, she exclaimed, 'Oh, Flint! Your plane!'

  'We're safe, Pollyanna. That's all the matters,' he replied, and she smiled wanly because she wasn't at all sure that they were. 'Now, if you're up to it, maybe you could take a turn in the water. My legs are cold, and my arms could use a rest!'

  She took off her espadrilles and slipped into the water, and he pulled himself into the raft. She was already quite wet, for she had been liberally splashed by the waves. And she was cold, for the wind was chill. But it felt as warm as a summer breeze in contrast to the lake. She hung over the side, the way he had done, so her legs and thighs were in the water. Flint tied a guy-rope around her waist so that she couldn't drift away, and he leaned towards her, with his hands lightly on her arms so she wouldn't feel alone.

  But in spite of this she still felt like a very small cork on a very large body of water, and by the time she had alternated floating and being in the raft three times she began to feel desperate.

  About this time Flint tensed—it was his turn in the raft. He said, 'I think I see something ahead. Hang on! I'm going to row.' He fitted the oars together, inserted them in the rubber oarlocks on either side of the boat, and started rowing hard. Polly kicked her legs in the water to help their progress.

  Gradually the shape of a tiny island materialised out of the night.

  'Land!' Flint cried triumphantly. 'Land, Pollyanna. We'll be drinking hot coffee before you know it!'

  And then what? she thought, shivering, but she kicked at the water harder than ever, and soon they were only a few yards from the steep granite cliffs of the island.

  'How are we going to get up there?' she queried breathlessly, but Flint merely said:

  'It'll be okay,' and started to row round to the other side.

  He was right. Here several smooth boulders lay, like a shallow staircase, making it easy to clamber up on to dry land. He gave a last pull at the oars and the raft grounded with a faint hiss on the wet stone.

  Polly's knees grazed the surface of the rock, and she tried to stand, but forgot she was still fastened to the raft by the guy-rope and, losing her balance, she fell to her knees again. In seconds Flint was beside her; he undid the knot, and, putting his powerful arms round her waist he half dragged, half carried her ashore, where she lay on her stomach, panting like a beached fish. After he had pulled their raft out of the water he collapsed beside her.

  She took a shuddering breath and turned on her side to look at him. 'Flint McGregor,' she gasped, 'if you ever say another word about my driving I'll kill you!'

  Pulling himself into a sitting position, he smile wryly. 'I promise to lay off.' He clambered to his feet. 'Now, let's make camp and dry ourselves out.

  She took the hand he offered and let him pull her upright. The wind made her soaking clothes feel like ice on her skin, and she started to tremble from the cold.

  'The first thing we must do is build a fire,' he said, putting his arm round her again as she shivered. Although he was no warmer than she, it felt good to have him so close, and instinctively she cuddled closer. 'I'll make us a shelter if you'll search for dry wood. There should be quite a bit of it about inland.'

  She looked at the tangle of dark trees ahead of them, a black mass against the cloudy sky. 'How will I find my way?'

  'With a great deal of difficulty,' he said drily. 'Pick up any wood you stumble over that's not too big to carry. I'll build us a wind-break over by that tree.' He pointed to an outcrop of rock where the roots of a large spruce clung to the meagre soil. Taking off his soaking yellow jacket, he handed it to her. 'Use this as a basket. Now—off you go. And watch our for poison ivy!'

  'What a jolly day this is turning out to be,' said Polly as she climbed into the underbrush. 'All I need is to get covered in poison ivy blisters to make it perfect!'

  She filled Flint's jacket with dry wood and pine-cones and added several larger branches for good measure— just to show him! By the time she returned to their stony beach he had fixed a pine-bough lean-to and was unpacking various small packets from the survival kit.

  'Ah, good!' he said as he took the pile from her. 'I've fixed up a clothes line out of the guy-rope. You undo this,' he handed her a small plastic bag the size of a cigarette packet.

  'What is it?' It felt soft and made a sound like tissue paper when she squeezed it.

  'It's a Space Blanket. An emergency blanket. It's made out of garbage-bag material. When you've undone it, take your wet things off and wrap yourself in it. You'll be warm again in no time flat.'

  'Take my clothes off?'

  'Of course, you'll catch your death if you don't. You can undress behind the spruce. The thing's seven feet long, for God's sake!' he snapped when she hesitated. 'You'll be perfectly covered!'

  She went behind the spruce and removed the gold foil from its plastic cover. He was right about it being big! It took her about five minutes to unwrap it! It was silver on one side, gold on the other, and as thin as a sheet of plastic kitchen wrap.

  She peeled off her jeans, which were now unpleasantly damp rather than wringing wet, pulled off her blue top and rolled it into a ball with her bra and bikini panties. Then, with the gold side next to her skin, she folded the blanket round her naked body.

  It was rather difficult walking back to the shelter wrapped in seven feet of foil and she tripped over her trailing hem quite often, but she managed not to fall down.

  Flint had laid a fire and was in the act of lighting it. When he saw her—a small, silvery figure, her hair a tangled mass of feathery curls round her face—he remained motionless for a moment. 'You look like a particularly delicious ghost,' he said at last, and struck a match against a stone. The twigs crackled to life, and orange-tongued flames started to lick the branches.

  'Aren't we lucky the matches didn't get wet,' she said. She had to struggle to keep her voice from trembling, for she was very conscious that she was stark naked under the flimsy sheet, and she knew that Flint was aware of it too.

  'Luck has nothing to do with it,' he replied. 'I filled an empty film can with two kinds of matches and dipped their heads in wax so they'd be protected. And then I wrapped the whole thing in wax-soaked cotton batten. Without my foresight, my girl, your undies wouldn't get dry.' He held out his hand and, rather embarrassed, she handed him her bundle of damp clothes which he proceeded to string on the makeshift line.

  He stripped off his wet shirt and hung it up too. 'Might as well dry off the top half of me,' he said. The light from the flames illuminated his broad chest which was lightly sprinkled with dark red hair, and made his golden skin look like polished bronze.

  He squatted down beside the raft which he had pulled up into the lee of the lean-to where it could be used as a seat. 'Which would you prefer?' he asked, holding aloft two pouches. 'Shrimp Creole or Boeuf Bourguignon?'
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br />   She stared at him. 'What do you mean?'

  He waved the pouches at her. 'Freeze-dried dinners. Isn't science wonderful? Now you choose, Pollyanna. Which is it to be?'

  Under the circumstances this sophisticated fare seemed very inappropriate, and she giggled, 'What kind of wine will you be serving?'

  'Eau de Huron!' he gestured to the lake. 'Boiled and flavoured with coffee crystals.'

  'In that case, let's have the beef,' she decided.

  When he had fixed the pot over the fire she asked nervously, 'How much food do we have? I mean… shouldn't we ration ourselves or something?'

  'We've got plenty. Besides, we'll be picked up soon, I promise.'

  'Oh, I see.' She was not convinced, however.

  He came and sat beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders. 'I'm not saying that to make you feel better, sweetheart,' he lied. 'Before we left Toronto I filed our flight plan. When we came down I activated the E.L.T. and transmitted a Mayday. They're probably looking for us at this moment.' He hugged her closer. 'There's nothing to worry about, I promise you.' He omitted to add that he didn't know for certain that his Mayday message had been picked up.

  Her heart was pounding, but not because of the fear of being stranded. Every inch of her was aware of him. Every inch of her wanted him to hold her closer still, and call her sweetheart, and…

  'Sable will be worried out of her mind,' she said, regaining her sanity and moving subtly away from him.

  Flint rose and put more wood on the fire. 'Yeah! Your mother too, I'm afraid. It's sure to have been announced on the news.'

  'Oh dear,' said Polly, 'what a nuisance!' She could hear Marjorie now, blaming Flint for the whole accident. In her mother's eyes the simple fact that he was a male would make him responsible for the engine failure, the ditching in the lake, the worry; everything. That he had managed to land them safely and unhurt would be dismissed.

  'There's nothing we can about it, it's just bad luck.' He smiled ruefully. 'I guess this has put you off flying, eh?'