‘That was a damn good day, Tom. Let’s see, you’re up to how many hours?’
Tom was filling in his log book and ran the nib of his fountain pen down the column.
‘I make it eight and a half hours.’
Trubshaw found his briar pipe and was busy stuffing tobacco from Player’s White label Navy Mixture into the bowl.
‘You seem to be over that period of stiffness. Today you were smoother, co-ordinated, had a good feel for the controls.’
Tom was delighted. ‘Thank you for finding the time. Please send my apologies to Mrs Trubshaw.’
With the tobacco packed down with his thumb, his instructor started to apply the flame from a Swan Vesta, sucking on the stem. The flame was drawn down into the glowing mixture. Clouds of smoke rose up. When he was satisfied that he was well alight, he took the pipe from his mouth, waved out the charred remains of the bent up match and flicked it into an ashtray.
Eyes screwed up, he looked back at Tom through the rising blue cloud.
‘You’ll need to start doing more ground work.’ He nodded at the small shelf of books above the magazines.
‘Take the end two. Keep them at home. I’ve got other copies. You will be examined on theory as well as practical tests for your licence.’
Tom’s heart leapt. His licence.
‘Thanks.’ He went across and pulled them down, glancing at the first of the titles, Principles of Airmanship.
Leaning back in his chair Trubshaw breathed out smoke, savouring the taste. ‘When can you come again?’
Hesitantly, Tom said, ‘Well I’m free all day tomorrow, but of course I understand….’
Trubshaw stopped him with a wave of the hand.
‘After church for a couple of hours – say twelve o’clock? Got to be home by two or thereabouts – the rest of the family is coming for lunch.’
‘Oh.’ Tom was surprised. ‘Yes – that would be great.’
‘Sure you haven’t had enough after today?’
‘No – not at all.’
Trubshaw nodded, teeth clenched around the stem.
‘See you tomorrow then – twelve o’clock sharp. Weather forecast is the same as today.’
Tom took his leave. He put on clips, got on his bike and cycled past Trubshaw’s new Riley Four Door Saloon in British Racing Green. As he left the owner was thinking about his progress. It had been a very rewarding afternoon. He enjoyed another draw on his pipe. The decision would be his tomorrow, of course, but if today was anything to go by it could well happen.
Tom took the smaller round galvanized tub, not the full-length one, from the outside wall and into the scullery. He ladled hot water from the boiler into it and added some cold from the tap.
‘Right, Mum, I’m getting undressed.’
He heard his mother’s voice from somewhere upstairs and his Gran next door, saying, ‘We’ve seen it all before, boy.’
Nevertheless he pushed the door nearly shut before he stripped off and stood in the tub. He used the bar of lifebuoy soap and a flannel to give himself a wash under his arms, around his body, and then one foot at a time. It took less than five minutes and he was out and towelling himself vigorously in the cold air. With his dressing-gown on, he baled out his water until he could pick up the tub and empty out the rest.
He quickly nipped outside and hung it back up. He’d missed bath night, not getting home until gone nine o’clock from his stint on the London to Fishguard express. He’d been briefed to sit in the same coach as three Irishmen bound for the ferry to Rosslare. He’d got on at Swindon and off at Cardiff. They were suspected Irish Republican terrorist; Tom wasn’t sure whether they were just being shadowed to make sure they were leaving or what. All Special Branch had asked for was a lot of manpower so that they could cover every possibility.
Upstairs he changed quickly into his dark trousers, white shirt and black tie. His dinner jacket had been taken by his gran who had pressed it for him.
He’d barely got it on and put his saxophone case on the table, sorting through his music when there was a knock at the door.
He kissed his mother and gran and with a cheery wave at his father he was gone.
The little Maroon Austin Ruby saloon went down to a crawl up the steep part of Cleave Hill. Tom asked his friend how much he’d paid – if he didn’t mind his asking?
‘A hundred and thirty-one pounds,’ was the answer.
He shook his head in awe. ‘How did you manage that?’
They reached the brow of the hill and the little car slowly began to pick up speed again.
‘The Kathleen Mavoureen system.’
Puzzled, Tom said, ‘What on earth is that?’
His friend, Paddy Redmarsh, cast a guilty smile at him.
‘I borrowed the money. You put down a deposit and pay the rest off in monthly instalments over three years.’
He began to sing in his Irish tenor voice:
Ma-vour-een
Ma-vour-een
It may be for years
And it may be for ev-er …
Tom was aghast that anyone could think of buying something so expensive on credit. He shook his head in disbelief.
‘Aren’t you frightened you might not be able to make the payments?’
The Irishman laughed. ‘Jeez, Tom, the whole fuckin’ world’s going crazy. Everybody’s having fun – I want some too, before it’s too late.’
Shaking his head, Tom looked at the road ahead caught in the headlights of the car. The new cat’s eyes reflected back at them. He didn’t like swearing much, but it seemed natural to Paddy, part of the musical way he spoke. ‘Where exactly is the venue tonight, Pad?’
‘Some bloody place called Sudely Castle. It’s an engagement party.’
Tom swallowed. Poor Fay, she would be denied a lot because of his background.
Fay was at her dressing-table, fixing an ear-ring. With a last touch of the powder puff on her neck and shoulders she stood up, smoothing the dress over her waist and hips. It fell to her shoes with their cuban heels and straps with pearl buttons over the arch of her foot.
She picked up the evening bag she had selected and checked that she had her cigarettes.
Fay had heard the door chime earlier and the voice of Wilson as he had let Jeremy in, then her father’s, before the study door had closed.
What on earth did he want? The best she could come up with was a shooting arrangement on the estate, or some other form of business. A sudden idea struck her. Jeremy might be considering going into politics – her father could help a lot there.
She closed the bedroom door behind her and tripped down the wide curving staircase.
Her mother wasn’t there, so she opened her bag, and fished out the silver cigarette case and pearl handled lighter. The spark from the flint didn’t ignite the petrol fumes until the third go. She applied the flame to the end of her Marcovitch Black & White. When it was alight she snapped the cover back over the flame and put everything back in her bag.
She was holding her right elbow with her cupped left hand against her waist, cigarette between her first and second fingers, the smoke trailing lazily up in the high ceilinged room. Her father’s study door opened and he emerged, already dressed in his dinner jacket, laughing, with one hand clapping the shoulder of a similarly attired Jeremy.
‘Well, my boy, I’m doubly glad you are joining us tonight and look, here’s the talented girl herself and doesn’t she look beautiful?’
Frowning, Fay turned, as Jeremy agreed, his eyes intently on her.
‘Indeed she does, sir – you must be very proud.’
Indignantly, Fay waved the cigarette from side to side.
‘What’s all this? Here’s the girl herself. What have you two been talking about?’
Lord Rossiter made for the decanters and gestured with the cut glass to Jeremy.
‘A little snifter to settle our talk.’
‘Yes, thank you, sir.’
Her father poured out two gener
ous measures of the single malt, replacing the glass stopper.
‘And you Fay. Would you like a sherry?’
‘Yes please, Father.’
He dispensed her drink from another bell-bottomed decanter and handed out the glasses to them both.
‘Cheers.’
They both responded and took sips.
‘Mm – very good, sir.’
Her father nodded. ‘It’s the nectar of the gods. You can keep champagne and brandy. A single malt is the most superb drink – always have one in my flask on the shoot.’
Fay tapped some ash into an ornate silver tray made in the shape of a scallop.
‘Really, Father, I’ve heard the same thing said by you about Port.’
Just then her mother appeared and, taking in their drinks, said, ‘What’s all this?’
Fay put the cigarette to her dark red lips, screwing up one eye as the smoke drifted up. ‘They won’t tell me, Mother, perhaps you can find out?’
Her mother looked at them both, directing her remark to her husband. ‘You do look a little smug, darling. Anyway I’ll have a sherry please since you all seem to have started without me.’
The talk turned to the political scene at Whitehall, and Fay, taking a last draw on her cigarette before stubbing it out, thought, ‘Ah ha, that’s what it was all about.’
Just then Simpson, the chauffeur appeared in the doorway.
‘Excuse me, sir, will the Lagonda be all right tonight? The Bentley’s got a flat tyre and it will take at least twenty minutes to change.’
‘Of course, Simpson.’ Lord Rossiter looked at his watch.
‘As it is we’re a bit late. Ready in five minutes.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Outside they all got into the car. Fay in the back seat was squeezed between her mother and Jeremy, who was very conscious of her lightly clad thigh pressed hard against his own. So was Fay of his. It was going to be a long evening.
The dining-room of the Royal was packed. As they followed the Head Waiter to their table, heads turned and some nodded. Her father was something of a figure in the district. He stopped by a table to have a word with the occupants, leaving the others to continue to their table.
When he rejoined them they were already being handed the leather-bound menus.
‘Would you like the sommelier to bring the wine list now, sir?’
‘Yes, of course, but we’ll have a bottle of your best vintage champagne to start with – we are having a little celebration.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The man bustled away.
Lord Rossiter beamed around at them all.
‘I must say, this is marvellous, having you with us, Jeremy, as we celebrate Fay’s start to her career – at least, until she gets married.’
‘Married,’ hung in the air.
Fay smiled, knowing that she would be seeing her fiancé on Monday, and lied.
‘I may never get married father. Haven’t thought about it much.’
Her father winced. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear just at that moment.
The sommelier arrived to present the chosen bottle of champagne for Lord Rossiter’s approval, his chain clanking against the glass.
‘That’s the one. Capital.’
They chattered lightly about nothing of consequence until four glasses of finely bubbling wine were placed before them. Lord Rossiter picked his up first and looked straight at his wife.
‘Let’s have a toast, to Fay and Jeremy – their future.’
Her mother repeated the toast.
Fay smiled weakly, a little irritated at the coupling, but at least it wasn’t something more embarrassing – you never knew with daddy.
The meal was very good, her father insisted on an excellent port with the stilton cheese, despite all the wine she had consumed, so she was quite tipsy by the time they were back in the car, squeezed up against Jeremy yet again. The latter laid his hand across the back of the seat as they drove home.
Somewhere along the way it must have happened. She wasn’t even aware of it, until they were in the drive and her father turned around and said, ‘Good to see you young people getting close.’
It was only then that she realized that Jeremy had a hand around her shoulder.
She sat bolt upright, unfortunately giving the impression that she was embarrassed by being caught out.
When they pulled up at the entrance and Simpson opened the door for her mother, she slid rapidly across the ribbed leather after her and got out, pulling her fur wrap tightly around her shoulders as she did so.
But Jeremy was faster. Already beside her, as her father said, ‘You’ll come in for a nightcap, old chap?’
Jeremy turned to look at Fay, as if seeking her approval, but she was already on her way to the opened front door. Inside a maid took her wrap. She yawned extravagantly.
‘I’m very tired, I’m going to bed.’
She kissed her mother on her cheek, then stood on tiptoe to give her father a peck as he stooped for her, saying, ‘Oh, are you sure? I thought you and Jeremy would show up us old things and spend half the night talking?’
She smiled as sweetly as she could, debated swiftly in her mind how to say goodbye and finally held out her hand.
‘Goodnight, Jeremy, thank you for being with us, I enjoyed your company very much.’
With that she made for the staircase.
‘Goodnight, Fay. See you soon.’
She called out over her shoulder, ‘Yes, of course, look forward to it.’
She wished she hadn’t added that bit, trying to be polite. As she climbed the stairs she heard her father saying, ‘You must come to lunch tomorrow – after matins.’
She winced. What was the matter with her father? As if she didn’t know.
Later, tucked up in bed, she looked at the photograph of herself and Tom.
Eventually she kissed his image, slid it under her pillow and turned out the light.
She went to sleep with the alcohol in her blood fueling thoughts about his strong arms around her lightly clad body, her breathing only slowing as she finally drifted off.
He enjoyed a bit of a lie-in, getting up finally at ten to nine to be greeted by the delicious smell of fried bacon.
His gran was at the range, tea towel over her shoulder, dutch apron on.
‘Morning Tom. Ready for your breakfast?’
It was a Sunday tradition in the household: bacon cut by the big, red, hand-driven slicing machine from the corner shop; eggs from a neighbour; a little bit of black pudding from the sawdust-floored butcher together with a couple of slices of fried bread.
‘Yes please, Gran, I’m famished.’
She set the plate down in front of him. He tucked in immediately, a book out on the table beside him.
‘What’s that you’re reading?’ she asked.
His Father, the News of the World open, reading all the court cases of the week looked up as he said, ‘Theory of Flight, Gran.’
His father snorted. ‘Why the hell are you filling your head with that rubbish and wasting good money?’
Tom had felt the resentment before and said resignedly, ‘It’s the future, Dad, and in any case, I want to.’
With another snort his father returned to his reading. He’d just come to a particularly salacious part where the private detectives had caught the Honourable Teddy Houghton in bed with a well-known lady. She had, in reality, been hired to lie in a revealing nightdress with him, without any other service being provided, in order that he might be ‘caught’ in delicto flagrante. That way the divorce could go through.
Tom scoffed the lot and added a chunky slice of white bread with lashings of home-made blackberry jam. All washed down with a mug of stewed tea. He closed the book and stood up.
‘Right, I’m off. Put my dinner in the oven, Gran. I’ll be in a little late.’
His father didn’t look up, just said, ‘First a funny-shaped football, now this flying – you’re getting
above yourself, Tom. Mark my words, no good will come of it.’
Tom paused in the doorway behind his father, winked and grinned across at his gran as he said, ‘See you at luncheon, Grandmother.’
Half an hour later he was on the grass strip again, lining up the nose of the Tiger with the tree, noting that there was a ten degree cross wind that hadn’t been there yesterday.
Trubshaw’s voice crackled in his ear. ‘Right, let’s see if you’ve forgotten how to do it.’
He hadn’t.
As they climbed away Trubshaw mentally ticked off the first of the points he had set in his head before he let Tom go it alone.
He made him do a few circuits and bumps then climb to 10,000 ft, before doing stalls and recovery, followed by forced landing procedures.
‘Right, take us down and enter the circuit, land and taxi in.’
Tom frowned, it was a bit early, but he didn’t say anything, perhaps Trubshaw’s wife had been getting at him.
He did a text book landing and taxied to the hangar. Trubshaw’s voice came over the R/T. ‘Bring her round into the wind and keep the engine running.’
Puzzled, Tom did as he was told then, to his astonishment, Trubshaw undid his straps, levered himself out of the cockpit, leaned back in and did the straps up again. He then jumped off the wing and came back to stand beside Tom.
He leaned closer and shouted above the idling engine. ‘Right off you go, try a circuit of your own, and for God’s sake don’t bend the machine – it’s more valuable than you are.’
He looked at Tom, po-faced for a second or two, then burst into a grin.
Tom sat there still numb, until Trubshaw suddenly yelled, ‘What are you waiting for? If you don’t go soon I’ll change my bloody mind.’
With that he stepped well back and waved Tom away.
He taxied out, feeling weird looking at the emptiness of Trubshaw’s seat. He lined up with his favourite tree, went through his checks, then with a sinking stomach he opened the throttle and held the stick forward, managing to keep in line with his tree. The tail came up and in no time at all he was airborne, the wind whistling in the quivering bracing wires. Trubshaw’s absence was frightening.
Enduring Passions Page 15
