by Nancy Carson
On the Thursday, Ned Brisco, together with Bill Harris, a colleague, drove a lorry to Fred Woodall’s farm in Bobbington. The load it carried was a prototype twelve-cylinder, water-cooled engine, fuel tank, fuel and a carved wooden airscrew, together with some steel bracing for mounting the ensemble into the nose of the Gull, plus a block and tackle to help them lift it. Ned was excited and apprehensive by turn. His apprehension was caused by the gut feeling he had that this engine was still too heavy and too slow to provide the power needed to get airborne. His excitement, however, stemmed more from the hope that he was wrong, as well he might be.
Ned’s employment with Star Engineering had not been as satisfying as he’d at first envisaged. It never occurred to Ned that the main differences between his own outlook and that of his employer would be a barrier to their mutual success. Ned was an enthusiast, his enthusiasm driven by an absolute passion for aviation; his employer was a businessman, driven by a different passion – the need to innovate and, by innovation, show a healthy profit. Thus Ned was frequently drawn away from his passion to help achieve the other’s. In consequence, he was not, he felt, able to afford sufficient time and attention to the challenge which had drawn him there in the first place.
Ned was not a qualified engineer. His premature departure from organised learning had ensured that. However, he had a gift for engineering and was fascinated by it; a gift no less valid than such as is endowed upon a great artist or poet. He knew without doubt that he could sort out any engineering problem with logic and suitable tools, given the time to do it. If only they would let him get on with it the way he wanted to. Every week, he had to submit a report to Mr Lisle outlining his progress over the preceding week. That in itself consumed precious time, time he could utilise more gainfully.
Bill Harris, who accompanied Ned today, was an engine designer. They worked together some of the time on this project, or were supposed to. The problem was that Bill had only ever considered that his engines would power automobiles, never aeroplanes. They were thus comparatively rudimentary. The entirely different problems posed by powered flight were alien to him and he found them difficult to comprehend; it was even more difficult to understand why such engines had to be so much more refined and sophisticated. ‘What problems are we likely to meet in designing a radial engine?’ Ned had asked him once, for he’d read about radial engines and they seemed an ideal configuration for an aeroplane. ‘What’s a radial engine?’ came the frustrating reply. So Ned endeavoured to educate Bill Harris on the peculiarities and demands of aeroplane engines, as he understood it. It was all very disheartening.
They arrived at the farm and eventually located Fred Woodall, to let him know they were working on his property. He said he would call into the barn later and bring some liquid refreshment. Ned reversed the lorry into the barn and they set about hanging the block and tackle from one of the great beams that straddled it. Much of the preparatory work on the Gull he had already done; sturdy mountings fitted to accommodate and secure the engine and the fuel tank, a new undercarriage complete with motorcar wheels and tyres. After much struggling and deft manoeuvring of the lorry, they managed to lift the engine in place and Ned located it precisely on the mountings he had fitted. After a couple of hours it was installed, everything was connected up, including the fuel lines, and they poured petroleum spirit into the fuel tank.
‘Let’s crank her up,’ Ned said, wiping his oily hands on a piece of rag.
‘You get up and prime her then,’ Bill said. ‘I’ll give the propeller a swing.’
After a further delay of a couple of minutes, Ned shouted the order to fire the engine. Bill smartly yanked down the blade of the airscrew and stood back at once. But nothing happened. The engine did not fire.
Again. To no effect.
Several times they tried. Of course, the engine had been bench-tested and it had seemed to perform satisfactorily then. Bill clambered up onto the Gull and checked all the leads. He disconnected the fuel feed and was satisfied petrol was getting into the carburettor. He checked the distributor and each spark plug. Half an hour later they were ready to try again.
This time, the great engine fired up with a deafening roar. A jet of smoke seared through the broad exhaust, filling the barn with acrid fumes, but there was a smile on Ned Brisco’s face. He signalled to Bill to open the great doors and, when he had done so, Ned carefully approached the opening, gently increasing the revolutions. He felt the thrust pull him forward and outside into the field. He could hardly wait to see just how much power there was at his disposal.
He opened the throttle and the engine roared into life. He felt the Gull being pulled forward, his speed across the field gradually increasing. He tried to apply more power but the tone of the engine did not seem to change, neither did the force of wind the propeller was generating into his face. The whole contraption was shaking and trembling with the bumpiness of the field as he traversed it and the throb and vibration of the engine. But he could not go faster. Why? He needed more speed. He needed to be doing more than thirty miles an hour to achieve lift. He felt he had not reached that speed yet and, even if he had, the extra weight of the engine evidently demanded even greater velocity. He kept going. Maybe a decent gust of wind under the wings would help, would reduce the drag of the wheels over the long grass. Then he saw that he was running out of field. He decreased the power, slowed down and turned around.
Attempt flight in the opposite direction. Increase power. The aircraft gained speed…But not enough, dammit. Hope, pray for that gust of wind that might make all the difference…Keep going…The barn loomed nearer and nearer. He could see Bill waiting expectantly. Ease off the throttle. Slow down…Come to a halt. Switch off.
Damn!
‘The engine seems to be working well,’ Bill called up to Ned.
‘Is that what you think, Bill? Well, I can tell you it’s bloody useless. I wasn’t practising taxiing. I was trying to take off. There just wasn’t enough power – like I feared.’
‘Strange that.’ Bill scratched his head. ‘But we should be able to tease some more power out of her.’
‘Yes, but I don’t just want torque, Bill. I need extra revolutions. We’ve got to speed up the airscrew – get it whirling round faster. As it is, it won’t pull the skin off a rice pudding.’ Ned stepped down from the Gull, a dejected expression on his face. ‘Here, give us a shove to get the Gull back into the barn.’
‘So, it’s back to the drawing-board, eh, Ned?’
They set about uninstalling the engine and packing it back onto the lorry for more work back at the factory.
Later the same day, Clover was about to walk past Tom’s studio just as he emerged from the front door of his lobby. Her heart went into her mouth, for she had not expected it, even though, in her heartache, she had wished for it. Despite the conversations she’d imagined in the event of their meeting, she was unaccountably, but typically, lost for words. It was Tom who ineloquently opened the proceedings.
‘Clover!’
She blushed vivid red and was flustered. She passed her basket from one arm to the other nervously, looked down at the ground and then at him. ‘Tom! How are you?’
‘I’m – I’m all right, thank you. And yourself?’
She detected some resentment still, some icy reserve and her heart sank. She knew him well enough to see that, by virtue of his standoffishness, he still blamed her for their split.
She shrugged. ‘If I said I was all right I’d be lying,’ she answered, looking into his eyes to better read his thoughts.
‘Are you ill?’
‘No, I’m not ill.’
‘What then?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
It was his turn to shrug. He looked away, exaggerating a hurt expression, unsure how to proceed next, uncertain quite what she meant.
‘I miss you, Tom,’ she blurted out. ‘Is that so hard to understand?’
‘Huh! I can imagine.’
‘Tom, I don�
��t tell lies. You know me well enough to realise that. Of course I miss you. You’ve been a part of my life for nearly a year…’
‘But I’m not the only one, am I?’
‘Oh, Tom…’ She sighed mournfully, frustratedly. ‘Of course you’re the only one. Give me credit for some virtue.’
‘I wish I could, Clover. But I know what I know.’
‘Tom, you know nothing…Look, can we go inside? I feel conspicuous standing here on your front step, especially if we’re about to have an argument.’ At least they were speaking. Better to take full advantage of the moment and use it to see if they could heal their rift.
He fished in his pocket for his keys, withdrew them and opened up the premises again. ‘After you…’
Inside, she stood by the counter of his lobby, waiting for him to extend his invitation to enter the studio. He cursorily tilted his head in the direction of the door and she took it as a good sign. In the studio she looked around to see if there had been any changes. The photos he’d had of her on the wall were gone. That told her the depth of his conviction in his reasons for their split. She turned to face him, to explain once and for all that there was nothing untoward between herself and Elijah.
‘Tom, I know what you think about me and Elijah. God knows I’ve thought of little else this week and more. But you have to know there’s nothing between us. How could there be? I can’t imagine where you got such a ludicrous idea. I’ve only ever wanted you…’ She felt her eyes tingling with tears when the Lord above knew how many tears she’d shed already. But she held his disbelieving gaze and hoped the truth was evident in her face. ‘I swear, Tom…’ She broke down crying, raised her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking.
Suddenly, his arms were around her and she sobbed the more.
‘There, there…’ He hugged her. He was so sorely tempted to welcome her back into his life, end this misery that had befallen them. But he had seen what he had seen. He had personally witnessed them exit the Little Barrel together, seen their closeness. It had been nothing short of a dinner-time assignation. He was not wrong…He could not be wrong about such a thing. But her insistence now, her demeanour, all told him he had to be wrong.
‘You swear?’ he said, his voice low.
‘Of course I swear,’ she blubbered. ‘Ask Elijah yourself.’
‘I don’t think I’d better.’
‘No, because you’d know how wrong you’ve been. Believe me, you’d look such a fool.’
He remained silent for a few seconds, trying to pluck up the courage to risk again his heart and his deepest emotions. At last he spoke and she raised her head from his shoulder to look into his eyes. ‘All right. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt…Let’s try again. But if ever—’ She squeezed him tight, almost squeezing the breath out of his body.
‘Oh, Tom, I’ll make you so happy.’ She laughed through her tears now and he smiled with her, the dark shadow of their mutual heartbreak lifting already. ‘I just want to stay with you here for ever, never moving, just holding you like this.’
‘I know the feeling,’ he whispered. ‘Believe me, I do.’
‘Let me stay a while, just holding you like this…’
Chapter 17
‘You look very nice tonight, Clover,’ Ramona remarked as they passed each other on the stairs. ‘Quite perky, I’d say.’
Clover stopped and smiled brightly. ‘I’m seeing Tom,’ she said and there was no concealing her elation.
‘Oh! You two back together then?’ Ramona tried to hide her displeasure.
Clover nodded. ‘Yes, thank God. I’ve missed him, Ramona. God knows how I’ve missed him.’
‘I take it you’re not going to stay here for my birthday then?’
‘Do you mind?’ Clover looked at her appealingly, seeking for her to understand and condone her absence. ’‘Save me a piece of cake, eh? I have to see him, Ramona. I just have to.’
‘No, ’course I don’t mind, Clover. I daresay you’ll have a lot more fun than me. But this time hang onto him. Men like Tom Doubleday don’t come along every day.’
‘I know. Don’t worry, I shan’t let go of him quite so quick next time. Are you coming back down to the taproom?’
‘I’ve just come up to change my apron. I’ve spilled port all down it, look…I won’t be a minute.’
Clover went into the taproom to serve, as she did most evenings, whether or not she was going out. Archie Lloyd, ageing, cranky, one of the regulars, held his glass up cantankerously and she went over with a smile and took it from him to replenish it. As she pulled steadily on the beer pump she wondered whether Tom would give her back her ring later. She’d hardly worn it, but strangely she missed it, as if it had always been on her finger, as if it belonged there. It just felt wrong without it.
Ramona returned wearing a clean apron and set about wiping the tables. It was early and the taproom was not yet over-busy. Clover began to busy herself putting glasses away when Tom came in. He smiled at her at once and she could see he was holding a stiffened brown envelope behind his back, the likes of which he normally used to protect prints. It seemed he was trying to keep it hidden from her. Of course, she must be mistaken; she knew him better than that. But then she thought she saw him look straight at Ramona. Certainly, his eyes dwelt for a second on hers, as if flashing some covert message, a raising of the eyebrows that was almost imperceptible. It must have conveyed some meaning to Ramona, for she at once stopped what she was doing and brushed past him to leave the taproom by the front door. When Clover looked again, Tom was no longer carrying the envelope. She could not be sure exactly what she had seen. Maybe it was just her imagination playing tricks at a time when she was particularly sensitive. So she smiled at him, trying to shove the disturbing impression to the back of her mind.
‘Do you fancy a drink, Tom?’
‘Just a half, please.’
She poured his drink, still uncertain what had gone on, peeved at what looked like conniving. Clover had hoped and believed she was on course for a happy and lasting reconciliation with Tom but now she was disappointed that perhaps he was sharing some sort of secret with Ramona. Well, perhaps she was wrong. She hoped to God that she was. It was easy enough to get the wrong impression. Look how Tom had somehow gleaned the wrong impression about her and Elijah. Because of it, she must give him the benefit of the doubt.
She handed him his glass of beer.
‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ He took a long draught. ‘How long before we can go?’
‘As soon as somebody comes to relieve me. Maybe Ramona will be back in a minute or two. She seemed to disappear fairly smartish, don’t you think?’
Tom made no comment. He merely turned the conversation, mentioning how fine the weather was.
It was ten minutes before Jake came in ready for work and Clover asked if it was all right to go. Of course, he gave her his blessing.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked as they stepped outside into the warm evening air.
‘Do you fancy going to our house? The folks have gone to my brother’s for the evening. They won’t be back till late.’
‘Yes, all right.’
As they walked, conversation was tentative at first, somewhat forced. They fenced with words, trying to draw each other out, trying to get to know each other all over again after their rift, as if each was trying to determine whether the other had changed noticeably. Raw and barbarous wounds, as yet unhealed, afflicted them both and they were anxious not to open them up again. Damn Ramona and Tom for their secret understanding to which she was not privy. It had put her on edge, irked her, provided one more incident that called trust into question and set back the healing process.
Tonight, however, would afford them the opportunity to do some serious making up and she was determined to put any doubts behind her. She had to. For their reconciliation to work they not only had to trust each other, but also respect each other’s trust. There was no other way it could work.
When th
ey arrived at Tom’s home the house was indeed empty. She fell into his arms as easily as a child and he held her tight, kissing her ardently, which fuelled her desire for him. It seemed so long since the last time they had made love and she was hungry for the tenderness lovemaking always brought, hungry for the reassurance of his renewed commitment.
‘You’ve never seen my bedroom, have you?’ he whispered.
‘No,’ she said with a coy smile, ‘but I’ve got the strangest feeling I’m about to.’
He grinned. ‘This way…’ He opened the stairs door at the side of the fire-grate and she followed him up the dim stairwell, her heart beating faster.
On the mantel-shelf in his bedroom stood some photographs of her. She felt a warm glow of satisfaction that he still treasured them. It was an indication of his love. She turned to him and held him, her arms going inside his jacket. She snuggled to him affectionately.
‘Tom…’
‘Yes, sweetheart?’
‘I love you…Only you…Only ever you. Don’t ever forget it.’
He was unbuttoning her dress. ‘I know. And I love you. And I want you…’
‘Let me…’ She took off her dress and everything else she wore, while he undressed himself. ‘Damn these light nights,’ she said and laughed. ‘I always think it’s more romantic when it’s dark.’
‘I don’t mind either way,’ he replied. ‘You’re beautiful, you know, Clover…’ He ran his hands over the smooth skin of her breasts. ‘I’ve missed you. God, how I’ve missed you.’
She gave him a hug, turned from him and pulled back the bedclothes. Then, she got into his bed.
Making love in a soft featherbed was a luxurious change. The bearskin rug was all well and good but, underneath it, lay the hard, unyielding floor. This was so much more comfortable, so much more satisfying. When they were married they would have a lovely soft featherbed, just like this. Lovemaking would always be this comfortable.
The anger and the sadness she’d experienced over the past week and more began to fade as she felt the familiar, yet ever-new sensuality warming her again. The doubts over the eye signals between Tom and Ramona evaporated in inverse proportion to the increasing tenderness she now felt. Tom seemed to be loving her hard with a bitterness and sadness all his own that could only be purged by this passion that was endorsing his devotion, and she welcomed it. Finally, both were spent and they relaxed in an opulence of perspiration and fatigue – and mutual contentment.
