A Family Affair

by Nancy Carson

  He would certainly show them. He would show everybody he was nobody’s fool.

  He nosed the Gull into the wind and taxied forward, then opened the throttle fully and waited for the surge of power that would haul him into the blue. It did not disappoint. The more he flew, the more he was surprised at how quickly the ground beneath you stretched away. He peered over the side as he banked. His colleagues, getting smaller, waved frantically and he waved back. The engine seemed to be performing well. There was still some vibration, possibly amplified through the frame of the Gull which had not been tuned to handle it like the Farman, but it was not as harsh as before.

  Ned scanned the landscape sliding away underneath him for landmarks. A canal, the Staffordshire and Worcestershire, lay below him, glinting like a length of shiny bent wire as it disappeared into the hazy southern distance.

  Follow it.

  It was such a pleasure to be perched up here, flying free with the birds, although the birds scattered in all directions at the raucous sound of his engine. Up here he could watch the world and all its troubles go by and be untouched by it. Up here, he was not a part of the world; he was insulated from the traumas and strife of a mundane and largely disappointing earthly existence. Up here, he was in charge, his beloved Gull did his bidding, not like the wayward, wilful wife below who resented and avoided him, who deceived and made a cuckold of him as if he were the biggest fool ever to pull on a pair of trousers. Up here, the clean, fresh wind in his face, he was above all that, in every sense. Up here, he escaped into his own preferred world.

  It was time to turn back. The crew would be waiting for him. He would be out of their sights now, out of earshot. But it was much too intoxicating up here to turn back yet. He was in his Gull. His Gull. He had waited too long to fly it, too long to return after a mere couple of minutes in the air. And how well it handled. How skilfully he had designed and built it. So he flew on proudly, following the canal, exhilarated, making the most of his elation, his spiritual freedom which, by its very nature, would be short-lived.

  He tailed the smooth bends for some time, over countryside patched with gold and yellow and green, lush with trees. To his left he saw a stately home in magnificent grounds, with a shimmering lake. Himley Hall. Beyond it lay Baggeridge Wood where he had taken Clover in the first throes of heartbreak over that out-and-out swine Tom Doubleday. Running west to east alongside the grounds of Himley Hall stretched the Himley Road that led to Dudley. Damn it, he would follow it. He would show them. He would show them all.

  Through the haze, the spire of Top Church in Dudley came into view, then the old grey castle. Good markers. He headed for them. After a few minutes he flew over the castle so close that he almost grazed the castellated Norman keep. Beyond, he could see the dismal Coneygree Colliery and the Coneygree Foundry where he used to work and flew towards them. He would show them too. He would zoom low over the foundry, let them see he was not such an idiot, let them know he had achieved his main ambition, let them witness it. For all they knew there, he had achieved two ambitions, for he had married Clover also. They weren’t to know the antagonism he had to contend with. So he swooped low over the roof of the moulding shop and dipped his wings in a salute, the Coatalen engine roaring so loud that nobody could have failed to hear. They would know who it was. Of course they would know.

  He banked to the right, and started to climb, circling the red brick hulk of St Michael’s church in Tividale. A little further on at Burnt Tree he spied the bottom of Bunns Lane and headed for it, followed it. How many times had he walked that route on his way home from the foundry, generally with Clover? If only he had known then what he knew now…The Gull climbed effortlessly towards the top of Kates Hill, the engine growling gratifyingly as he followed the upward contours of the landscape. He banked to the left over the brick works in an aerial swagger, over the slag heaps of Springfield Pit then to the right, to approach Hill Street from the top. Deftly, he skimmed the staggered rooftops, still climbing. He looked down to see if there was any sign of Clover. He would show her. He might not be the most commanding man when marital considerations were uppermost but by God, he was commanding the sky right now. Joseph Mantle’s house came into view and, as he flew over it, it struck him again that Mr Mantle must have been the anonymous benefactor to whom he still owed two hundred pounds. Well, there was some saved towards it now. Despite her other faults, Clover could be thrifty. Below him now was Oakham Lodge with its fine ornamental pond, the garden incongruous with the ravaged landscape of the quarries and mines so close by.

  He banked round in a loop to come back the other way and do a ‘downhill’ run. Everybody would know who Ned Brisco was by the time he had finished this memorable exhibition of aeronautics. As he swept low again, everybody in his path left their homes wondering what outlandish creation was responsible for the thunderous racket above that was causing the roof slates to rattle, the houses to shake and the dogs to bark. He peered down and waved his arms in a signal of triumph, then banked round to enjoy yet another lap, heading again for Oakham Lodge, his chosen marker.

  The Coatalen engine spluttered.

  He pulled on the throttle to increase the speed and clear whatever it was that was causing the misfire. The engine faltered again, spitting and sputtering, then began running smoothly once more and he started to climb, to clear the tall trees of Tansley Hill Road that were en route.

  Again the engine stuttered, backfired…and died…Oh, shit!

  Petrol.

  Nobody had thought to check the tank, least of all himself in his fervour to be airborne. Nobody had foreseen an extended flight and, in his elation, Ned had overlooked how much fuel he might have in the tank to enable him to fly this far. There were no fields within reach that he knew to be smooth enough. If he came down now he would have to land in the street or crash into the side of a slag heap – or mess up somebody’s allotment.

  He could glide for a little while. He could glide even further if he had greater height. But the weight of the engine made a terrific difference to the way the Gull handled in a glide. He trimmed the wings and the tail flaps to flatten out his descent and avoid the tree tops. The flat stretch of Hill Street would have to do as a landing strip. It was wide enough there. If he could just keep aloft that long…He skimmed the trees then allowed the biplane to drop dramatically, making his stomach churn. Once again Joseph Mantle’s house was just below. What a bloody irony if he crashed into the house after the man, out of the kindness of his heart, had lent him all that money.

  Down, down…Steady now…

  He landed, heard the creak of the frame, and felt the impact of the wheels that formed part of the strengthened undercarriage, as they hit the ground and rolled forward, urged on by the sheer impetus of forward flight. He prayed he would stop soon, pulling hard on the lever that lowered the flaps as an air brake. Brakes on the wheels had been the last thing to consider installing on a craft like this. Onward the Gull rolled. They reached the end of the flat stretch, only fifty yards from where he had landed. Hill Street, by no means misnamed, fell away from that point with a steady and sustained descent. There was no way he would be able to stop once it was rolling down there.

  As the Gull wheeled over the crown of the hill he saw children playing ahead of him. He yelled at the top of his voice and waved his arms. It was not just children. The street was alive with folk who had left their white-washed sculleries and the malodorous sanctity of their earth privies to witness the commotion that his deafening flight had created. He tried to steer a straight course with the aid of a rudder that was ineffectual on terra firma. People saw his plight and hid in their entries to avoid being hit. The Gull rolled downhill uncontrollably. The last time anybody had witnessed anything like this was when a horse had bolted, dragging behind it a cart that bounced and crashed off the walls of the houses and railings as it hurtled recklessly through the inclined streets.

  The Gull rattled on, bumping over the potholes that perforated the surface.
He caught sight of Clover, holding Posy in her arms, watching, looking incredulously at his unforgivable antics. Yet another incident to commend him this was turning out to be. He was gathering speed. Perhaps he might even take off again. But no, the weight of the dead engine was too much of a handicap. He whizzed past the corner shop, past the Junction, onlookers gawping with open-mouthed incredulity. A line of wrought-iron railings loomed, fronting the little ivy-clad cottage that was directly in his path, precisely at the bend where Watsons Green Road joined and the hill fell away alarmingly.

  There was a crash and Ned was suddenly conscious of flying through the air quite independently of the Gull. He closed his eyes and braced himself. He made abrupt contact with the soft earth of a flower-bed, was scratched alarmingly by some unsympathetic rose trees as he hurtled through them, and sensed that he was rolling over and over. Then, he felt a sickening thud as his shoulder struck something solid; the cottage.

  Clover, of course, saw everything that happened. Still with Posy in her arms, she rushed to the bottom of the street where the Gull had ploughed through the railings of the little Ivy Cottage with its pretty foregarden. Other people joined her, anxious to help, anxious for the details of an incredible tale that they would have honed to perfection, ready to relate to their loved ones by the time they returned home.

  ‘Damn fool!’ Clover remarked scornfully to one of her neighbours as they ran together.

  There was a moment of confusion. At what had been the front wrought-iron gate of the ivy-clad cottage, a startled woman was standing. ‘And who’s gunna pay for this?’ she asked anybody and everybody. Other people arrived and looked around at each other incredulously, seeking a lead from somebody. A groan emanated from where Ned lay randomly folded in a heap.

  Clover put Posy on her feet and addressed the woman. ‘That’s my husband.’ She sounded both apologetic and defiant as she brushed past, ducking the loose wires, struts and torn sailcloth of the Gull’s wings, and ran to Ned.

  ‘What’s he doing in my garden?’

  ‘When he comes round you can ask him,’ she replied pointedly, displaying no sympathy for either the woman or the unfortunate aviator.

  ‘Oh ar? And will he bruise my cheek like he has yourn?’

  Ned opened his eyes and looked around him. He felt a nauseating pain in his shoulder and couldn’t feel his right hand. He saw Clover stooping beside him looking decidedly displeased and wondered for a moment if she was an angel at the gate of St Peter frowning on him for having arrived unscheduled.

  ‘You damn fool,’ she rasped. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’

  ‘I crashed,’ he bleated meekly. ‘I’m hurt.’

  ‘Serves you damn well right. I suppose you did this on purpose?’

  He winced at her accusation and protested: ‘I ran out of fuel, Clover.’

  ‘Huh!’ she exclaimed. ‘On purpose.’

  ‘He needs to be got to a doctor,’ somebody said.

  ‘We’n gorra wheelbarrow,’ his mother said, arriving, horrified, on the scene. ‘I’ll goo back and fetch it.’

  So Ned suffered the indignity of being wheeled to the doctor’s surgery in a wheelbarrow to add to his general humiliation. The doctor said he’d broken his collar bone and his right wrist on the impact with the cottage. He set his arm in plaster, tied a sling under it and around his neck and told him to rest completely. Work was out of the question till he was mended, especially low flying.

  The up-ended biplane, its tail high, its propeller meshed intricately and artistically with the wrought-iron railings of the ivy-clad cottage, was quite an attraction for the rest of that day and night. Word spread fast that a mad aviator had deliberately crashed his biplane into a little house opposite the Junction and the crowds duly gathered to see the wreckage. Clover managed to get a message to Sunbeam giving news of the incident and the next day two steam lorries and four people appeared in Cromwell Street to collect it. The Gull was duly disentangled from its snare, disassembled, strapped on to the lorries and taken away.

  ‘And who’s gunna pay for this?’ the occupant of the little cottage asked again before she disappeared, pointing to her demolished railings.

  Ned was incapacitated and in some pain. He took to his bed, the intention being to make Clover feel sorry for him and render himself totally dependent on her. Because his right wrist was broken and he was right-handed, he could do little for himself, and it was obvious she would even have to cut his meat prior to serving his meal so he could eat it. He believed she would wash him and shave him but, with her own hand damaged and bandaged up, she refused, deciding he would have to do these things himself, and serve him right.

  ‘And if you think I’m going to the privy with you to wipe your bum, you can think again,’ she informed him decisively. ‘Learn to do it left-handed.’

  The accident threatened to interfere seriously with Clover’s affair. That same afternoon she wrote Tom a note and ran down the street to post it, knowing he would receive it by first delivery tomorrow. She explained briefly that Ned had found out about their affair and had crashed his aeroplane. Whether the two events were connected, however, she wasn’t sure, she said, and neither did she care. But, because he was injured, she was obliged to look after him. Tom was not to worry though. She was well, missing him and would see him as soon as it was possible, and was ever likely to bring Posy with her.

  A few days’ grace would not be so bad, she realised. It would give the bruise on her cheek time to fade and the great blister on the base of her thumb time to heal. She knew that if Tom saw either injury and she confessed the truth, he would want to confront Ned, and already there had been trouble enough.

  Ned had been in bed a week, feeling abundantly sorry for himself, when Clover went to his room and sat on his bed.

  ‘I’m going to see Tom tonight,’ she announced. ‘I’ll try and be back by ten.’

  ‘Oh?’ he muttered, irked. ‘And what if I say as you can’t go?’

  ‘You can say what you like, Ned Brisco, but I shall go anyway.’

  ‘And what about Posy? You surely can’t expect me to look after her in my condition?’

  ‘I wouldn’t inflict you on Posy,’ she said, implying that he was the burden. ‘I shall take her with me.’

  ‘So you’re dragging the poor innocent child into your vile shenanigans now then?’

  ‘Tom is her father – if you recall.’

  ‘Oh, so he knows then?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t know, as it happens. So you can rest easy.’

  Ned, after a week, had grown more used to the idea of his wife’s affair although, after his accident, he had cherished the forlorn hope that she might have realised her folly. He hoped that she might feel sufficiently sorry for him to fall deeply in love with him in consequence, and give up Tom. After this conversation, though, he knew there was no chance of it ever happening. Anyway, if she was taking Posy along with her, the child’s very presence would preclude them from lying together; his main concern.

  Ned’s incapacity created a further problem; he would not be paid his full wages, which would mean dipping into the money Clover had reserved to pay off his loan. Already she had more than a hundred pounds saved, most of it the proceeds of the sale of his motor car, but she had added to it conscientiously, a little at a time.

  Many of Ned’s workmates called to see him and to get a first-hand account of what went wrong on his fateful flight in the Gull. They seemed to regard Clover with interest as she welcomed them pleasantly with cups of tea, slices of apple pie and home-made fruitcake, and they wondered what had ever possessed her to marry a fruitcake like Ned.

  Louis Coatalen called, specifically to get Ned’s impression of the modifications to the engine, which were favourable. ‘I am ’appy to see zat your appetite for ze flying ’as not been suppressed by ze little incident,’ Monsieur Coatalen remarked dryly.

  Indeed, it had not. Ned looked forward to his next flight with zeal, determined that in fut
ure he would always check and double-check the fuel in his tank.

  ‘In ze meantime, I myself will ’ave to be ze test pilot. As if I ’aven’t enough to do testing ze racing cars.’

  As Ned improved, he whiled away his time dreaming of new aircraft designs and, in November, read in his newspaper that two Frenchmen had made the first flight in an aeroplane constructed entirely of metal. At once his mind started working overtime and he sent a letter to Louis Coatalen asking if he could obtain more details. Such news on aviation was welcome and things were happening at such a pace these days.

  Ned returned to work on 18th November, fit and recovered, and raring to fly again.

  The Balkan wars had dominated the headlines recently, in two conflicts that took place in the Balkan Peninsula. These hostilities set the stage for the crisis of 1914, and was thus a prelude to the First World War.

  But the Balkans were not the only place trouble was brewing. Enough was fermenting at home to keep Herbert Asquith and his Liberal government well-occupied. Industrial unrest was at a level never before seen with strikes by miners, dockers and railway workers by the tens of thousands. The Suffragettes were becoming ever more militant in their struggle to become enfranchised, and were perceived by the government and much of society as a growing nuisance. They had embarked on a policy of guerrilla warfare that appeared, to society in general, to be aimed at society in general. Meanwhile, Ulster teetered on the brink of civil war, rejecting violently Asquith’s bill giving Home Rule to Ireland, and an arms race between the military powers of Europe was escalating wildly. War seemed inevitable.

  Of the money the government spent on arms, an increasing amount was committed to aircraft. The aeroplane was being regarded as less of an eccentricity and more of an aid to prosecuting a successful war, if and when war came. It was thus being developed as an instrument of war.

  The previous couple of years had seen tremendous advances in the design and performance of aircraft. Speeds of up to 100 miles per hour were achieved, heights of 10,000 feet, distances of over 200 miles. Farnborough had mysteriously become the foremost of the world’s aeronautical research establishments, developing both aircraft and aero-engines. After centuries when flight had been the wild dream of cranks, the few years between 1903 and 1913 had seen aeroplanes become almost commonplace.