Flight of the Tiger Moth

by Mary Woodbury

“Then chances are Buddy’s in good hands, Jackie.”

  The boys strolled through town, hands in their pockets, kicking pebbles ahead of them. Jimmy Boyle, home from Moose Jaw, drove past them in his dad’s ­beat-­up pickup truck. He shook his fist at Jack, raced his motor and sped out of ­town.

  “What a jerk!”

  “Dad says the Boyles step dance. Who would have guessed?”

  Wes shook his head. “I, for one, can’t see them doing it. Jimmy doesn’t look like a dancer. More like a boxer. What’s he mad at you for?”

  “His dad probably got after him,” replied Jack. “I think he’s mad because I rescued Buddy and because I got a ‘cushy’ job at the airfield.”

  “You work hard, Jack.”

  “Jimmy doesn’t know that.”

  The two friends walked to the tiny park at the end of the block. Jack flopped down on an old ­swing.

  “Trevor looks awfully young to be a pilot.” Wes hung upside down from the frame of a baby swing that was long gone, then somersaulted to the ­ground.

  “Dad said a lot of the English boys lie about their age to get in the air force. Maybe Trevor did. He doesn’t need to shave yet. I could tell looking at him.”

  Wes laughed. “If he did, he’s not the only one around here that hasn’t told the whole truth. You’ve got a few secrets of your own.”

  “If you ever tell, I’ll –”

  “I know. It’s a secret I have to take to the grave with me. How Jack Waters learned to fly.”

  “Don’t push me, Wes.”

  “I cross my heart and hope to die. Okay?”

  “Wes,” his mother called from the McLeods’ front porch. “Time to go. Dad is taking us to the Ambassador Café in Moose Jaw before we fetch Cathy.”

  Wes hurried away, leaving Jack swinging lazily. He thought about Basil and Trevor. They were starting training and had no idea that he was ahead of them in flying skills. He jumped off the swing and headed out of the sleepy village, instead of home to check on his dad. Sometimes his secret clamoured to get out like a drowning gopher out of a ­hole.

  >>>

  Jack wandered out the gravel road that led to the Hobbs’ farm with its wonderful swimming hole. Melvin and Arnie had dammed the creek, decades ago, before they went to the Great War. He couldn’t walk that far today. He just wanted to put some distance between himself and his life in ­Cairn.

  In the last few years so many people had passed through his life, like the trains rolling across the prairies or the ducks and geese that spent summers on the sloughs and ponds around Thunder Creek. Everyone was bound for somewhere else – off to the war in Europe or the Far East, or moving to Calgary, Edmonton, Regina or Saskatoon, where they would work in munitions factories or manufacturing ­plants.

  Now these two young guys had walked into his life and stirred things up. He wanted to join in and get involved but he worried about investing too much in people who were just going to up and leave in a couple of ­months.

  Jack shaded his eyes from the setting sun and scanned the sky. A flock of geese flying in formation headed west to the wetlands near Thunder Creek. He whistled a crazy song his mom had taught him to play: “Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy.”

  His mother hadn’t played funny songs since Sandy went missing. She’d had days when she hardly talked because she was so sad. Every couple of weeks she’d pack a box of tinned goods and treats to send to Flo. The last time she had put in a bag of liquorice allsorts, Flo’s favourites. “It’s the only sweet things she’s likely to get,” she’d ­said.

  She’d taped the box carefully, trying to guarantee its safe delivery to somewhere in England. “All we can do is hope she doesn’t get sent to a field hospital near the front lines. That’s really dangerous.”

  Jack figured if Flo had the chance to go to the front, she would. She couldn’t tell them straight out. The censors wouldn’t let her. Besides if she told, Mom would worry all the ­more.

  Mom once said that if Jack had been through the First World War, the Depression, the dirty thirties with the dust and drought, and now Hitler, he’d know why she was a ­worrywart.

  After Flo left for England, Ivy had confided in Jack, “You’re all I’ve got left, Jackie. Whatever you do, don’t get hurt.”

  He’d promised not to. But if someone needed help, what would he ­do?

  Chapter ­13

  After winning the ­five-­hundred-­yard race at the field day on Monday, Jack was feeling pretty chipper. Wes had won the broad jump. On Tuesday, Jack and Wes wrote their last exams. Jack knew he’d aced Science and Math. He was a winner whether anyone knew it or ­not.

  In the afternoon Wes’s sister Cathy came to the high school to talk about careers. She sounded a little nervous and flustered, probably because her little brother Wes was sitting there, grinning like a gawky crane with red hair and ­freckles.

  Wes figured Cathy was really there because the principal wanted her to meet the other teachers and get a feel for the way the school worked, since she would be teaching Grades One to Four in ­September.

  Jack was so amazed at how pretty Cathy looked in her pastel blue skirt and white blouse, her blondish hair cut in a short bob, her blue eyes dancing, that he couldn’t hear much of what she was saying. He’d always thought of Cathy as Wes’s skinny older sister. When had she turned into a beautiful young woman, he wondered? Too bad she was nearly ­nineteen.

  Girls. Jack smiled. Maybe he was the one who had ­changed.

  After school, Wes, Jack and Cathy strolled down the street to the Chinese restaurant for milkshakes. “Is the principal always so formal?” Cathy asked. “He didn’t seem so serious when he interviewed me at Easter.”

  “When he’s in front of the whole school, Mr. Mackintosh tries to sound severe,” said Wes. “But during the World Series playoffs he hauls his ­short-­wave radio into class so we can keep up with the score.”

  “That’s right!” Jack had a hard time speaking around the knot in his throat. He felt as if his feet and hands had lead weights in them. He’d never felt this way around Cathy before, not even last Christmas when she was home for the holidays. “He made jokes when he was handing me the prize for winning the race against Mortlach’s finest.” Jack blushed. There, at least Cathy would know he had some skills. He wished he could tell her he could ­fly.

  “Jack’s our best runner, for sure.” Wes gazed at Jack. “Not as modest as I thought, though.”

  A couple of grade twelve students in the front booth waved to Cathy. “We heard you guys are planning a big musical night,” said Tommy Thompson, the pharmacist’s son. “Too bad we’ll miss it.”

  “No loss, though,” said Earl, a skinny guy with bushy black eyebrows that met in the middle. “We’re not very talented.”

  “Why are you going to miss it?” Cathy ­asked.

  “We’re going to join the Royal Canadian Air Force,” said Tommy. “We’re off to the manning depot in Regina to sign up.”

  “Will you be training at the Moose Jaw base?” Jack ­asked.

  “Don’t know yet,” Tommy said. “Probably.”

  “Maybe you’ll be able to make the fête, then,” Cathie ­said.

  “I hear you have two hotshot raf flyers helping.” Earl drained his chocolate soda with a noisy ­slurp.

  “They haven’t flown anything yet,” Wes said. “They just got here. But they can sure sing.”

  “Unlike us,” said Earl. “Say, did you hear Jimmy Boyle and Repete tried to sign up? They lied about their age.”

  “Nobody believed them.” Tommy laughed. “My cousin in Moose Jaw told me. He saw them on the street. They worked in construction for a few days but got fired for being late. So they’re back in the village, swearing and fighting as usual.”

  “Dad heard that Jimmy’s driving for his dad,” Jack said. “I don’t know what Repete’s doing.”

  “Jimmy’s mad at Jack for rescuing one of his puppies,” said ­Wes.

  “
Watch out for him,” said Tommy. “He holds grudges a long time. Shot holes in my dad’s sign because he wouldn’t sell him cigarettes. No proof, though. The Mounties couldn’t do anything.”

  The two grads paid Mr. Wong and headed out the ­door.

  “I have to meet these raf fellows.” Cathy blushed. “Everyone’s been telling me about them. I hope they aren’t snobs.”

  “You’ll meet them tonight at choir practice,” said Jack. “See for yourself.”

  The three kids carried their milkshakes to a booth by the window, next to the Hobbs twins. Howie Wong, the restaurant owner, hummed as he polished the tables. “Coming In on a Wing and a Prayer” was his favourite tune this ­week.

  “Mr. Wong should sing in the chorus at the fête,” suggested ­Wes.

  “I’ll tell Basil and Trevor.” Jack sipped his chocolate shake and gazed at Cathy McLeod from under his lowered eyelids. Suddenly a voice from the neighbouring booth spoke what Jack was only thinking. “You’ve turned into quite the young lady, Catherine Anne McLeod.” Melvin Hobbs swooped his old fedora off his head and bowed. Arnie touched the brim of his worn straw ­hat.

  “Thanks, Mr. Hobbs.” Cathy smiled at ­them.

  “Glad to see you aren’t heading off to war, my dear,” said ­Arnie.

  Cathy sighed. “I wish there was another way of making tyrants go away.”

  “We get more proficient at killing each other with each passing decade,” Arnie sighed. “I heard the Nazis are working on a new rocket.”

  “We’re learning to kill people hundreds of miles away,” said ­Mel.

  “Whatever happened to ‘Thou shalt not kill’?” Cathy said. “Educated people should figure out alternatives to fighting.”

  There was a sudden silence in the restaurant. Most Canadians were behind the war effort one hundred percent. It took a pretty determined person to voice a contrary view. Jack admired Cathy’s spunk. She was a pretty strong character. He didn’t agree with her, though. Jack didn’t know what else they could do now but ­fight.

  Cathy handed Wes a quarter for her milkshake and ­stood.

  “Good luck with your new job!” Melvin lifted his hot coffee as if it was a toast and took a sip. “This stuff gets worse by the week, Howie.”

  Mr. Wong shrugged. “It’s hard to get good beans.” He took the money from Wes, rang the cash register and tossed the change into a small rubber ­tray.

  “Sounds like you’ve got grounds for complaining,” Jack ­giggled.

  “Don’t be a drip, Jack.” Wes pocketed the change and headed for the door. “We better get percolating down the street if we want to get any dinner before choir practice.”

  “Puns are the lowest form of humour, little brother.”

  “We can’t be serious all the time, Cathy.”

  “Have you noticed,” Arnie spoke loudly as the kids headed for the door, “how kids have to stop eating snacks so they can eat supper? If I did that, I’d weigh a ton.”

  “As I recall, when you were their age you could eat a horse and have room for dessert,” laughed ­Melvin.

  “That was then,” Arnie ­said.

  The three young people sauntered down the street. When they rounded the corner, a fierce gust of wind roared in their direction. Dark clouds gathered in the north. Jack lifted the front of his ­t-­shirt to cover his face and keep the dust out of his mouth and eyes. Gravel stung his exposed ­flesh.

  “Will the flyers be able to get to town if this wind keeps up?” asked ­Cathy.

  Wes glanced at his sister. “They have an old jalopy they bought off the last bunch of lacs. Anyway, why are you so interested?”

  “Don’t you have a boyfriend in Regina?” Jack tried to keep his question ­casual.

  “None of your business, Jackie Waters,” said Cathy. “I just wanted to know if we would have a ­good-­sized choir at rehearsal.”

  “Sure, Cathy.” Wes chuckled. “You’re just interested in the choir.”

  “We believe you,” added Jack. Suddenly he wasn’t sure he wanted Cathy meeting Basil and ­Trevor.

  When they reached Jack’s back porch, it had started to rain. Wes and Cathy followed Jack inside. It was so dark he turned the lights ­on.

  “Where’s your mom?” Cathy glanced around the unusually quiet ­house.

  “Ever since Dad threw his back out, she’s been running the store. He sits on a couch with weights on his left foot – supervising.” Jack shrugged. “I’m learning how to cook.”

  “You’ll make some girl a wonderful husband,” laughed ­Wes.

  “There’s nothing the matter with a man learning to cook.” Cathy started putting away the dishes left in the dish drainer by the sink. “Dad cooks. Mind you, I hate it myself. But I admire men who aren’t afraid of doing ‘women’s work.’” She gave Jack a big ­smile.

  Jack discovered that for some reason his heart was beating fast. He looked at the table and spotted some crumbs from his lunch. He quickly wiped them off the oilcloth with a damp rag and hung the rag over the pump handle by the ­sink.

  Cathy headed into the living room, or the parlour as some people still called it. She sat down at the piano and played “Chopsticks.” Wes took the lower octaves and played the second part. Jack turned on the brass banker’s lamp that stood on top of the piano, a faint smell of Cathy’s lily of the valley cologne tickling his ­nose.

  Wind rattled the window. Spritzes of fine dust sifted through the cracks around the frames and under the door. No one would be flying ­today.

  Suddenly the lights went out. Cathy and Wes paused in their playing for a moment, then laughed and carried on their duet in the darkened room. Jack went to the kitchen and opened the drawer that held the candles and matches. The Waters family were always prepared, Mom made sure of ­that.

  He lit a candle and carried it into the living room and put it on the top of the piano. Wes and Cathy had moved on to more complicated pieces, the tumbling notes fighting against the fury of the ­storm.

  The wind howled around the house. Rain pinged against the window like nails in a galvanized steel bucket. The lights didn’t come ­on.

  “That’s quite the storm,” commented ­Cathy.

  Wes glanced out the window. “Too bad Mom can’t hear us practicing. She’d be pleased.”

  Jack envied them their relaxed attitude. His mother hated lightning. She’d always wake him up when there was a bad storm. He remembered as a small boy sitting in the kitchen sipping hot cocoa, wearing his cowboy pyjamas and wrapped in a Hudson’s Bay blanket. If the wind really howled, they went down into the small dirt basement that smelled of mildew and ­mice.

  Dad wouldn’t do it. He could sleep through anything and refused to worry about things he couldn’t ­change.

  Jack stared at a yellow moth flitting around the candle. It dove, rolled and flew closer and closer to the flame, like a tiny airplane. Jack had never seen a moth so large and colourful. Its wings, like a ­dew-­covered spiderweb, shone with flecks of gold. Jack was transfixed by the orange flame flickering in the gloom and the bright moth in its curious dance. He raised his hand, ready to blow the candle out or pinch the flame, but he was too ­late.

  With a flash of yellow and blue and a soft hiss the delicate body dropped onto the polished wooden surface of the ­piano.

  Jack shivered. He felt as if, as his mother put it, “someone just walked over my grave.”

  “What if there’s a tornado?” asked Jack. “We should go to the basement, just in case.”

  “Come on, Jack, it’s a storm not a catastrophe!” Wes peered out through the glass in the unused front door. “But wait, what do I see on the horizon – it’s a tornado and this is Kansas and we’ll all be twirled away to Oz.”

  “Okay, and I’m the Cowardly Lion,” sighed Jack. “But I’d feel safer in the basement.”

  “Sis, let’s leave our ungracious host and run for home. Mom will probably serve cookies to us survivors.” Wes headed for the back ­door.

  “
Are you coming with us?” Cathy ­asked.

  “No, I’ll see you later at choir practice.” Jack took some carrots out to peel for ­supper.

  “What a cautious fellow you are.”

  Jack blushed. “Mom and Dad will be home soon. I’m supposed to start supper.”

  As Cathy stood by the door, tying a scarf around her blond hair, Jack wished he could impress her. But it wasn’t going to happen today. In a moment Cathy and Wes were out the door, leaving him in the kitchen working on the ­carrots.

  >>>

  The storm had passed long before choir practice, thank goodness. Jack and his parents had supper. Then Ivy headed over to the church. Bill headed to the couch with his Reader’s ­Digest.

  “So tonight the flyers join the choir,” said his dad. “Your mother is sure pleased about that.”

  “And Cathy’s back from Normal School,” sighed ­Jack.

  “Maybe she’ll fall for one of the flyers,” Bill laughed. “In spring a young person’s fancy turns to love.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” whispered Jack so his dad couldn’t hear him. “I’m going now,” he called out as he headed for the door. “See you later.”

  Jack sprinted along the gravel street. Up ahead he spotted the jalopy parked in front of the church already. Cathy and Basil were shaking hands and laughing about something. Trevor was climbing out of the driver’s seat and Wes stood by the side of the car, hands in his pockets, watching the whole scene. Some friend he ­was.

  Jack kicked a loose pile of tiny stones so hard he stubbed his big ­toe. He thought back to Cathy and Wes standing in his kitchen earlier, laughing at the storm. He wondered how he looked to them, and suddenly he saw those nights long ago, sitting in the kitchen with his mother, in a new way. He’d always thought she did it to comfort him. Now, he wasn’t sure. Who had been comforting whom?

  Chapter ­14

  With school over, Jack worked every day at the air base. They’d had no further news of Sandy, but Flo had written several times, talking about the long hours she worked nursing wounded ­fliers.