A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures)

by Julia Hughes

  ‘At least if we crash, we’ll only be killing ourselves.’ He finished.

  ‘But you flew gliders.’ Wren protested.

  ‘Powered gliders. Hardly any difference.’

  ‘But you’ve never gone solo.’ A sore point with Rhyllann.

  ‘I won’t be solo. I’ll have you.’

  Wren fell silent. Probably thinking that they’d be caught before they even took off.

  The silence grew. ‘Say something!’ Rhyllann urged.

  Wren raised troubled eyes to him. ‘Will we have parachutes?’ He asked tentatively. Laughing outloud Rhyllann threw his arms round him, then jumped up to cartwheel around the crem.

  *

  They risked a bus ride into Denman village. Rhyllann had never been there before; the cadets’ mini-bus had taken a different route to the aerodrome, a mainly private affair just outside the affluent village. Two or three, sometimes four small planes circled above them. They walked in the general direction of the planes’ take offs and landings.

  Wren’s misgivings faded in the bright sunshine. He walked with only the slightest limp through country lanes, pointing out kestrels, damselflies and rabbits until Rhyllann told him to shut up. Not that he didn’t appreciate nature; it just seemed a bit girly to go into raptures over a butterfly.

  Three ponies hung their heads over a gate, Wren stopped to chat and stroke them. Yet another girly thing Wren enjoyed. Every weekend he traipsed out to Epping common to muck out stables just for the chance to bounce around on some old nag’s back. Gran and Rhyllann were united in their disapproval of this activity.

  ‘You should get danger money brawd.’ Rhyllann advised one weekend, watching his cousin schooling yet another bolshy overfed under-worked pony. But Wren just smiled and carried on travelling out to Epping.

  Rhyllann’s stomach fluttered as Denman Aerodrome came into view. Wren ducked as a plane droned over them, dropping out the skies to skim the perimeter hedge. They watched it landing gracefully, then lurch along the runway.

  ‘Oh my god. It’s much bigger than I expected.’ Wren sounded awestruck. Rhyllann grinned – nothing prepared you for the first time. The noise, the controlled power, the nonchalant way the planes swung into the air to leave the ground behind. And the amazing part was, it was like this every time. He kept waiting for the excitement to fade, but it never did. Every atom of his being tingled at the closeness of the gravity defying machines. They watched as another plane taxied round the main field, which could have held forty rugby pitches easily. As it trundled along it seemed impossible it would ever leave the ground. Turning into the long tarmac stretch, with an increase of engine noise it picked up speed. The air billowed under the fixed wings, the front strained upwards, the aircraft seemed to judder; then bounce, and suddenly it was airborne. Wren’s head tilted right back as the plane curled a semi circle, then soared away. Turning a shining face to Rhyllann he said

  ‘And you think you can do that?’

  Rhyllann nodded. ‘I know I can!’

  Finding a vantage point, they spent the afternoon watching planes take off and land. Rhyllann pointed out the windsock, hanger, and behind that the control tower. As a raw recruit to the air cadets he had won the yearly cup awarded to the “Most Zealous Cadet”, much to his embarrassment and his friends’ amusement. He was the youngest sergeant in the history of his squadron. Over the past two years he’d attended every camp, and flown in just about every single and twin prop light aeroplane imaginable. He named each plane as it passed overhead, adding its specification. Soon Wren recognised them too.

  I should have brought him here before, Rhyllann thought. Or made him join the air cadets anyway. Wren’s enthusiasm matched his own, he asked endless questions, thrilled for some reason to discover that speed was measured in knots. Rhyllann knew this subject inside out, and answered patiently, enjoying his new role as teacher. Studying the map, they plotted their route into Cornwall, Wren making a list of landmarks they should pass over on their journey. With Rhyllann’s input he calculated the time scale, and devised a respectable itinerary.

  Eventually the sun began to set, shimmering reds and golds lingered on the horizon, promising another perfect day tomorrow. Helicopter blades whipped over head as the air ambulance landed. The flurry of activity slowed. Car headlights gleamed as staff headed home for the night.

  ‘What now – do we break in?’

  Rhyllann stretched; feeling joints in his arm popping. ‘Starving aren’t you? No. I can’t fly at night. We’ll need those landmarks. Cornwall’s what – 300 miles South West? If I’m only a few degrees off course god knows where we’ll end up. We’ll break in just before sunrise, we need to wheel out one of those babies, fuel up – then upwards and onwards!’

  ‘We can’t do anything till tomorrow? Where are we going to sleep?’ Wren massaged his lower calf, just above his damaged foot as he spoke.

  Rhyllann shrugged. ‘Here.’

  ‘Oh no. I’m not sleeping out in the open. At least let’s get back to those stables we passed. There’s bound to be a barn or shed.’

  So they trudged back towards Denman village. Curious ponies rushed over to surround them as they vaulted into the field, following them up to the stable yard.

  ‘Why aren’t the horses in the stables?’ Rhyllann asked, scrunching his shoulder against a whiskery muzzle nuzzling his neck.

  ‘Ponies. Not horses. It’s a warm enough night. Ponies are pretty hardy – if they were going to a show or something tomorrow they’d bring them in – but otherwise they’re better off outside. In fact …’

  Rhyllann told him to can the lecture. He wasn’t that interested.

  ******

  At least they didn’t have any problems waking up. Straw wasn’t nearly as comfortable to sleep on as it looked.

  But they weren’t early enough.

  ‘Hell! We should have taken turns staying awake.’ Rhyllann said, glaring at the activity on the other side of the hedge. They were pulling planes from the hanger. Three and sometimes four men to each aircraft.

  ‘I don’t think we could have managed anyway.’

  Rhyllann didn’t answer. His glorious plan dashed before it even got off the ground. He counted six aircraft lined up all ready for their pilots to take to the air. Probably commuter planes for high flying yuppies. If only he could somehow get over there – clamber aboard one of them. That one there would do nicely, he thought eyeing the useful looking Apache two seater.

  They needed a diversion of some kind.

  ‘What we need is a diversion of some kind.’ Wren said.

  Rhyllann looked at him in surprise. ‘Brawd – I was just thinking the same thing.’ They were laying on their stomachs again, under a hedge, sharing the last bottle of squash. Swigging back a mouthful of orange juice Rhyllann continued to survey Wren waiting for the next suggestion.

  ‘If that diversion could happen as one of those planes is primed ready for take off, after permission’s been given from control.’ He prompted.

  Wren began wriggling backwards out of the hedge. ‘Come with me. I’ve got an idea.’

  Rhyllann followed, hoping it didn’t involve him pretending to be a woman again.

  They were back at their vantage point. Only this time they had company. Wren held the reins of the liveliest pony in the field. It had taken twenty minutes to catch the nimble piebald. By the time they returned, only two planes still waited for take off. Rhyllann held his breath as one of them began taxiing to the top of the field, halting almost opposite them as it began its ungainly turn away from them onto the tarmac runway which ran the length of the field.

  ‘Here brawd – when it's in position here – start your show.’

  Wren nodded. ‘Don’t wait for me. When the plane’s at that corner you set off.’

  Rhyllann gave him a leg up, the pony dancing on the spot as Wren swung his leg over its back. Once Wren placed his toes in the stirrups, the animal seemed to quieten. Rhyllann put it down to an overactive imagi
nation, but the pony seemed to be waiting for further instructions, as though thinking to itself “well this is different and might even be fun.” Turning the pony on a pinhead, Wren trotted off along the verge. Head up, his back ramrod straight, hands and heels down, almost merging with the pony.

  Draping his bag across his back Rhyllann wriggled through the hedge into the field. The early morning rush hour over, the grounds’ people had sloped off for breakfast. Even so he felt exposed and worried he could have set off an unseen alarm. His ears strained, listening for an angry shout or worse still a siren. Instead, hearing an engine catch Rhyllann raised his head – yes. The plane he’d earmarked began its run up. In position! In position! he told himself. Don’t wait for Wren. They had one chance and one chance only. He needed to be at the start of the tarmac yet still undercover. Keeping close to the hedge, he waddled forward in a swift duck walk, dropping to the ground as the plane passed him, too soon. Hell! He’d never get there in time, any moment now he'd be spotted, and this was the stupidest plan in the world and he wanted to go home. The next moment all hell broke loose. Wren came galloping into the take off zone screaming and clutching at the pony’s black and white mane for dear life. Making a bee line for the tarmac strip its hooves clattered and slid as it whirled frantically, tossing its head and neighing loudly.

  Wren screamed above the engine noise for someone to help him. In front of Rhyllann, the aircraft slowed then halted at the corner of the runway. A head appeared – a hand waved.

  ‘Get that bloody thing out of my way!’

  Rhyllann hunkered low, dampening down nerves, waiting his chance. “Don’t lose it, don’t lose it.” He muttered. Then adrenaline kicked in making him feel invincible. If they could pull this off, they could do anything.

  Wren was putting on the show of a lifetime. The reins seemed to shorten, tucking the pony’s nose into its chest. Wren clamped his heels against the pony’s flanks. Flawlessly he performed a number of dressage movements culminating in a series of half rears. All the while shrieking at the top of his voice, dangling first one way then the other from the saddle. No sign of the grounds’ crew; probably engrossed in their newspapers as they filled their bellies. Rhyllann hauled himself forward with his arms until he was parallel with the plane. Keeping his head down he squirmed across the last twenty yards of open ground, halting against the plane’s left wheel prop. He heard the pilot talking in a voice identical to Rhyllann’s squadron leader to air control, located behind the hangers, almost in the next field. Wren screamed again while manoeuvring the pony still closer, Rhyllann could actually feel the ground reverberating to hoof beats.

  Muttering. ‘What is that child playing at?’ the pilot turned the engine off and jumped out, still clutching his briefcase. From his worm’s eye view Rhyllann caught a glimpse of expensive looking narrow shoes, and although he was now at least five yards away, wafts of gorgeous scented aftershave still lingered in the air. The pony quietened, emboldening the man to stride up to it. In his new role as rescuer, the man’s attitude softened.

  ‘Now don’t be silly, keep calm, don’t panic, just jump down.’ He spoke with the authority of one used to having his every whim obeyed, raising a hand to the pony’s bridle. For a moment the scene could have been a trendy photo shoot for an upmarket clothing chain. Then the pony shied away with a snort, splattering the beautiful dove grey suit with snot.

  ‘Help me – I can’t – I can’t! One of your planes startled him – he bolted – oh please help me!’ Wren wailed. All the time the pony danced and skittered, tantalisingly just out of arm’s reach. Within seconds Wren managed to coax the man into the middle of the field, and still led him by inches then feet further and further away from his aircraft. The next five minutes were crucial. Any moment now control might send someone onto the field to take a look see, or a passer-by stop to lend a hand.

  Rolling under the plane, Rhyllann hauled himself in, without bothering about pre-flight checks he restarted the engine, and began pivoting onto the runway. The flat northern tones of his instructor resonating in his mind, “Steady now lad, check the wind sock … find your heading reference .”

  The city-gent would-be pilot spun round.

  ‘My plane!’

  Rhyllann jumped down from the cabin holding his hands up in surrender.

  Wren encouraged the pony to rear again.

  ‘Eeek – Mummy help me!!!!’

  And in the split second it took for the man to switch from reluctant hero to duped idiot an iron clad hoof rammed down on the wafer thin leather shoe. Rhyllann winced as the man screamed, hopped twice then toppled to the ground. Now Wren was galloping towards him, leaning alongside the pony’s neck, fumbling under the saddle. Rhyllann stepped to one side as the pony skidded to a halt snorting heavily, streaming foam towards him. Wren tumbled from its back, tugging the saddle free as he landed. Ignoring Rhyllann’s efforts to bundle him into the plane, he grabbed at the noseband, loosened a couple of buckles and pulled the reins and bridle over the pony’s neck and head, turning it as he did so.

  The pony’s nostrils flared as it swung round to gallop off across the field bucking and spinning and calling out in triumph, rushing back to the wretched pilot who had only just regained his feet, and aiming a playful kick at his thigh.

  Rhyllann threw his cousin into the plane’s cockpit then jumped up beside him. He opened the throttle, at the same time searching the skies for any descending planes. He clamped the headphones on, they were light and well fitting, immediately cutting out most of the engines’ noise, noting with surprised delight the top of the range GPS.

  Clicking the mike open, Rhyllann confirmed take off in a clipped Home County accent, then snapped the mike closed. Pilots tended to keep transmissions to the bare minimum. He’d already persuaded himself that even if anything was scrambled to intercept them, they’d be given the chance to land before being shot out the skies. Too late now for any second thoughts, he’d crossed the Rubicon. Opening the throttle to full, he checked the RPM: Good – already over 2550, and increased the speed to 55 knots. The joy that flooded through him cancelled out any nerves. He felt rather than heard engine noise escalate, thundering now and nothing could stop him. Wren, still settling himself into the passenger seat, found another set of headphones and fumbled them on. Now Rhyllann could hear him hiccupping with laughter through the intercom:

  ‘That pony should be in the circus! My god was he enjoying himself – did you see the look on his face? He was having …My god Rhyllann – You did it! We’re flying!!!’

  Rhyllann grinned. ‘You noticed!’ He rolled the wings level, watching the slip ball return to the middle, confirming his little plane was flying in balance.

  Below them fields, buildings and roads swirled away, forming a green patchwork intersected with grey and blue ribbons of roads, canals and rivers. Wisps of clouds drifted beneath them, sky soared above them, merging seamlessly in the far distance with the land racing below them. Checking the compass Rhyllann headed West for the horizon. Wren’s teeth chattered with excitement.

  ‘This is better then a cross country chase!’

  ‘Better than snogging Becky Roberts!’

  ‘Yeah right. Like you’d know.’ Adding. ‘I hope that little horse’ll be ok.’

  Setting the radio to scan local frequencies, Rhyllann kept his own worries about jet fighter pilots and dog fights to himself. Wren couldn’t keep from grinning. Watching as Wren rooted around in the side pocket of his seat, Rhyllann felt amused and pleased with his cousin. When he produced an aeronautical map, scale ruler and protractor Rhyllann laughed at him.

  ‘You love to complicate things don’t you?’ He tapped at the GPS. ‘Stop worrying.’

  But Wren couldn’t resist a new map or updating Rhyllann on the landmarks they passed; it kept him occupied. Rhyllann settled into cruise mode, keeping clear of other small aerodromes, and avoiding RAF bases like the plague. But air traffic was light, and they caught hardly any chatter on the airwaves.
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  Wren prodded him, wanting to know why Rhyllann occasionally rolled the plane from side to side.

  ‘Because we can see for miles and miles, but not what’s directly below us. It’s kinda like checking in your mirrors when you’re driving.’ He explained. ‘Here – d’you wanna try?’

  Wren looked uncertain. ‘Another time. Let’s not push our luck. Anyhow we should be past Dartmoor soon.’ Adding ‘Yes! Look – The Tamar! – we’ve done it! We’re over Cornwall!’ He whooped.

  Rhyllann felt he’d been flying forever, this was second nature. Not even second. He was in his element, effortlessly predicting every little flurry of wind, thermals and down drafts. Glancing at the instruments Rhyllann estimated they’d covered almost 350 miles in two and a half hours, and still had a quarter tank of fuel left. He patted himself on the back, not bad going at all. They’d caught snatches of conversation from other pilots, but none referring to the daring Denman raid. Rhyllann wondered who you would report a stolen plane to. MOD? Civil Aviation? Bit of a bummer really he thought.

  “I say officer, my flying machine has been stolen!” Cue laughter. The poor guy would never live it down.

  He’d gloated too soon. Up till then the radio had been issuing monotonous requests and permissions for take offs and landings, background noise and Rhyllann had stopped really listening. When the message came, it was like getting an electrical shock from something as innocuous as a kettle or light switch.

  ‘RAF Longmoor, seeking a light aircraft, Apache mark BP nwp. Say again. Bravo, Papa, November, Whisky, Papa. Thought to be heading west sou’ west.’

  Wren stared in horror. ‘Oh no – what are we going to do?’ He wailed.

  ‘Easy. Find a field.’

  ‘A field! You’ve never flown solo before – you’ve never landed – we’re going to crash – you promised parachutes!’ Wren started hyperventilating as he realised there was nothing but a thin metal shell and miles and miles of thin air between him and the ground.