Noah's Heart

by Neil Rowland

  I observe in frustration as squads of policemen advance across the land and form a cordon around the illegal gathering. I can’t leave Angela to make her own luck. How should I move from here? I’m not going to rescue Lizzie or our first child.

  Our angel.

  On returning to the factory I have difficulty concentrating. The Whig Wham order this year is a priority and we need to work up the job. This will not be enough to keep Corrina sweet, as a lingering bitter taste informs me.

  After lunch I go out on the shop floor. Wanting distraction from mental vibrations. James Nairn jumps out of his office to round on me. He has a further shock to add to our troubles. I was beginning to relax with our company’s finances, when I was really having a smoke over a fuel dump.

  “If we don’t face our problems, it’ll be the end of the road!” he warns. Always coining a phrase.

  “Don’t worry,” I promise. Aiming for a friendly chat with colleagues, I attempt to palm him off.

  “All of them will lose their jobs otherwise. You have to take these decisions,” he insists.

  “All right, man, I’m cognisant,” I reply. “No need to rush me up to speed.”

  “You can’t put this off, as if there’s no tomorrow.”

  “Later.”

  “You oughta know that your company is ripe for take over,” he says.

  “Oh, really? Take over? Who’s going to take over this company? Not while I’m still at the controls,” I inform him. “Or afterwards.”

  “At your own peril,” he warns.

  This gives me pause. Over the years - decades - the company has been the object of generous offers and bids. Millions of pounds to sell up and rest my bones in a hammock for the remainder of my days. Too much money to count, even as my hands shook. Why didn’t I buy myself a mansion in the Black Hills somewhere? I don’t know if Luke will resist these temptations. He’s the son and heir.

  “Did we have any new approaches, then?” I enquire.

  “The company is small to medium size, with stagnating profitability...they see opportunities there!”

  “This business is my life time’s passion,” I remind him, tetchily. “This was the dream of three young people.”

  “Be that as it may,” he comments.

  “Definitely they would like our mark, the established brand,” I conclude.

  That way my name could last forever. But would I recognise myself?

  James’ next warning carries a more personal note. “In the short term you will have an individual acquiring a majority share stake.”

  “For real? Who could that be?” I reply. “What are you warning me about?”

  “Shareholders are disgruntled by your performance,” he says.

  “Is my performance the issue?” I challenge.

  “They may be tempted to sell,” he persists.

  “The traitors!”

  “There’s a chance that somebody will get their hands on a block of shares.”

  “Who has the motive to dominate this little company?” I quibble.

  “Your girlfriend, that’s who,” he states.

  I form a tense smile of disbelief. “My girlfriend?”

  “That’s right, Mr Sheer.”

  “Which one are we referring to?” I want to know.

  “Ye’know, Freda. What’s her name? Freda Fardine?”

  “What about her?” I retort.

  “Miss Fardine...”

  “Farlane,” I tell him.

  “Well, that bosomy lassie... the one on the bike... she’s been purchasing shares.”

  “Has she?” I remark.

  “In a fury, Noah,” he warns, with emphasis.

  “In a fury?”

  “That’s correct. In a positive fury.”

  “Then we’ve got to stop her,” I declare.

  “As many shares as she can get her hands on. They’re only too glad to be rid of ‘em at the present time.”

  I wince. Have we become so devalued? “After everything we’ve been through together,” I consider. But you never can predict.

  “At present her stake is just below thirty per cent,” he instructs me.

  “Not a controlling stake. But we can’t have too many private shareholders left can we?”

  “Mrs Regina Hargreaves at fifty three York Terrace,” he informs me. “I was just talking to the lady this morning.”

  “This is bloody outrageous.”

  “But what are ye goin’ to do?” Nairn challenges.

  “You’re the money guru, aren’t you?”

  “But then you’re the boss, Noah.”

  “No point arguing,” I say. “My idea has always been to bring Lukey into the business...eventually...when he graduates. As soon as he develops an interest in kites and balloons.”

  James makes an ironical expression to himself.

  “Does Corrina know what she’s doing? The consequences to me and my family? Putting my son’s future into danger? Taking away their inheritance. Man, we’re not exactly the Murdoch family.”

  “Are your kids prepared to sell their shares?” Nairn presses.

  For drugs? For porn? “I don’t know...only Angie’s old enough to sell at present.”

  “If your kids agree to sell then Miss Fardene will have a majority stake,” he pronounces.

  “Our sweet lord.”

  “If you don’t move and take these hard decisions...to make people redundant and to reduce costs...overheads...the girl is going ta succeed!”

  “She’d love to take me over,” I declare.

  “Then I would have a sharp word with the lassie,” he advises.

  “What happens if I should leave the scene, any time soon?”

  “I don’t know,” he tells me. “We have to form a strategy.”

  “I’ll tell you what happens,” I say, “this company will be handed over to the famous Farlanes!”

  “What’s so famous about them?” he comments.

  “She’ll never get her oil stained fingers on my company. We’ll go through those accounts again. We’ll get an accountancy firm in to help. I’ll get in touch with my solicitor,” I say, moving resolutely through the building. My heart rate climbs. My eardrums are thumping.

  “She could find herself an extremely rich young woman,” James warns.

  “Don’t worry,” I vow.

  Nairn and I discuss Corrina’s probable moves. He vends me yet another coffee as we talk. We take refuge in my office, trying to form a plan. Fortunately I still have one. An office.

  I mention my daughter’s escapades. My self-confidence has been shaken, but I’ve not yet gone completely to pieces. I want to remain on speaking terms with James. He’s as easy to shock as my mother though.

  “My family’s breaking off into so many directions, I don’t know if I’m keeping them together or chasing them away,” I say, in navel gazing mode.

  “Don’t fret, Noah,” he consoles.

  “Maybe she’s too far gone,” I consider.

  “Did you think about ballooning into the music festival?” he suggests.

  “That’s a bit far out.”

  “Fly over the top of them coppers. Are ye afraid they’ll shoot you down from the sky?” he chuckles.

  “How many miles d’you think that will be to fly?” I consider.

  “About eleven miles, from take-off point.”

  My eyes narrow and my mouth contorts.

  “You’ve flown that far for a cuppa tea b’fore now,” he reminds me. “Well, for a pint of beer m’be!”

  “There’s no law against high spirits and balloon flights,” I remark.

  “This morning we had a brisk south easterly...so presuming there’s been no shift, f
rom the last reading, wind direction oughta be favourable.”

  “Do you think? What about wind speed factor?”

  “Good question. That would be fifteen knots.”

  “I may find myself in New York for breakfast,” I comment.

  He shrugs, looks past me, with nothing more to add. The final decision to fly rests with the pilot.

  “In these conditions, tricky to reach the festival location,” I argue.

  “You’re the guy with a runaway daughter.”

  “How are these hippies going to react to my arrival? Landing at their festival in a hot air balloon,” I say.

  He shrugs again.

  “The machinery we have to buy for ourselves. It isn’t cheap or disposable, you know.”

  “I don’t see why these scruffs should want to vandalise your machine. See how this balloon flight will solve the problem.”

  “You’ll have to follow me on the ground. Take my car. I’ll try hard to touch down near the festival. Then Angie and I can rendezvous with you later, at an agreed grid reference.”

  “There you have it, Noah,” James concludes, crossing his arms; deal done.

  Chapter 32

  Ashton Park is a large estate, formerly in the aristos’ hands, a stone’s throw from the Pirates’ football ground. In those good old days the aristos were involved with coal mining, forestry and commissioning designs from Inigo Jones. In these duller days the estate belongs to the council and the grounds are a favourite launch site for Bristolian balloonists. I count myself among those Bristolian balloonists.

  After we park and get out to look around, James surveys weather conditions ruefully. What is the flight plan this afternoon? It’s a calm and pleasant afternoon at the moment, but the forecast isn’t encouraging. The sky already has a tortured look, at the edge of a storm, air temperature falling in relation to the setting sun. But as an experienced pilot I should be able to cope, even as the atmospherics change. The most awkward stages of a flight are take-off and landing of course. This applies as much to airline pilots as to human cannonballs, to swans lifting from and landing into lakes as it does to gliders on the end of a line or coming down in silent isolation.

  I have to get up to speed. James and I waste time bickering as we debate the most favourable take-off area. Finally I go along with his suggestion of a clear patch by Church Wood. A feathery tree line offers protection from the wind. Trying not to delay further we unpack our equipment efficiently and begin to assemble rigging. I ensure that the propane tanks are securely strapped to the main frame: then I attach burner hoses. Pre-flight checks take longer with just the two of us. We spread out the massive colourful balloon envelope across rough grass, ready for inflation. We run through further safety checks with great concentration. James is a man capable of such deep concentration and focus; valuable qualities both for a finance manager and an engineer. The only conversation between us is technical, purely related to the task ahead. Personal differences and past arguments are behind us, as if we’re preparing to escape from Colditz; at times Big Pink does feel like Colditz, when there’s a lack of other prisoners. This is how we work at the factory, despite our high jinks.

  James takes special care examining a deflation panel. This mechanism is a vent at the side of the envelope, that the pilot can open and close to stabilise altitude and position, by trapping or releasing the warmer air that provides lift. As I adjust the pilot burner and check fuel pressure, the envelope is already, gradually, by increments, puffing out into the atmosphere before us: Like a grumpy giant clambering back on to his feet, the material begins to move and spread. Lazily at first but with increasing vigour, the giant sock fills and inflates.

  Preparing myself for the adventure, I clamber into the carriage basket at this stage. This isn’t the simple leap that it used to be for me. I have to be careful not to tear stitches or muscles - especially the master muscle. There’s enough lift in the craft to raise an edge of the basket from terra firma; to tauten guide and anchor ropes. At this moment I can feel the ‘artificial lift factor’, which is a phenomenon in which the crown of the balloon is pulled up by warmer currents above. The problem is that the balloon quickly reaches colder currents on top, which has the effect of switching off your lift. In this situation your craft hasn’t built up enough heat and lift to get up to a safe height. The danger is that the balloon will begin to pitch and fall at a hair-raising horizontal in that situation. This is a false persuasion, as the feeling of ascent comes too early. The danger is that the pilot is deceived into setting off. I’ve seen many balloons ripping through tree tops, tearing holes into materials and wallets.

  Nairn and I check our flight plan and arranged references. He will track the craft along the way and zoom in on me if need be; if my flight shapes like a Brazilian free kick through thin air. I’ve burnt enough gas to warm the envelope to a full vertical. The dirigible is nudging upwards with determination. I catch the main line as James throws it towards me in the basket. Gently the wonderful bulbous contraption lifts, takes off majestically from the earth - awesome as a space ship, quiet as a dream. James gives the traditional lavish wave as a send-off; before rushing back to my car and starting off in hot pursuit. No way to recapture an errant daughter without defying the laws of gravity. Man, you need nerves like electrical cables.

  Dragon fire leaps up into the void of the envelope. Storm clouds race across the horizon in front, lead-bellied as the old blues singer, resembling furious warriors in full armour. Psychedelic images are sliding and reconfiguring in front of my eyes. The fiery noise of burning gas compares to terrified amazement. You feel so perfectly - or imperfectly - alone. The gods have me in the palm of their hand. I am gripped by a fifteen knot wind, as strong as the jaws of Rachael’s bull dog when he got hold of my trousers.

  I get a picture of the patchwork of fields, hills and estates. Unfortunately the craft has only found a low altitude as it scuds down a slope towards the wood. The aerostat loses shape as it pushes out warm air and takes in cold. I’m shaping up for a fiasco in the tree tops. It’s a perfect illustration of the manual’s “don’t do”s. What am I going to say to the other guys in the club, if they find out?

  I think of Nairn grinding his teeth below, as he struggles with the Citroen’s unfamiliar controls. I should have enough flying experience and miles in the logbook. But here I am skimming tree tops. I could be sharing my supper with the crows this evening and offering a few titbits of my own. I hallucinate about Angela throwing herself about at the festival, while I’m pulled limb from limb by hungry buzzards. To escape that horror I burn fuel like a Texan tourist in Alaska.

  As a consequence the craft surges up into the sky like a plunger on a test-your-strength machine. The earth reduces below me as if I am watching camera shots from the side of the Space Shuttle. To counter this dangerous ascent I’m forced to tug on the deflation panel. This is misleadingly called a ‘parachute’. After wasting so much propane I hope not to run out of fuel later on my return trip - assuming there’s going to be a return trip. Jim Morrison didn’t come back to reality after climbing into that final warm bath. I peer up desperately into the heavens of the balloon’s interior; feeling like a midge in the great web of the planet. Where’s the escape strategy?

  While I vent warm air, that feels like steam from the pipes of a dragster, I manage to stabilise the craft. Excessive lift factor is removed as I level out at two hundred feet. We’re still in one piece, despite my pantomime efforts at a bump and tangle. I’m on my way at last - to rescue my hedonistic princess from the tower of song.

  Worse luck as wind speed picks up; cross currents distorting the shape of the balloon envelope. On any normal day the pilot doesn’t hear the wind, doesn’t feel the speed, as if the world’s slipping away under your feet. This afternoon the balloon is crumpled in its trajectory - a paper streamer in a fan. Menacingly there’s a school of cumulous clouds wa
iting in the distance, with the impact of bored and hungry sharks. From the ground cumuli are puffs of cotton wool. In fact they’re created by vapour rising in warm air and then freezing in the middle atmosphere. If your balloon gets caught in this convection you’ll finish up a cork on a Roman fountain. But there’s nobody around to coo and point at the delightful trick. The pilot may get a kick out of the rise, but then he or she will freeze and asphyxiate in the stratosphere. After which he or she will plunge back down to earth, blue faced and bug eyed. Don’t let anyone persuade you that balloonists are wimps or eccentrics. Man, you’ve got to be like Arnie when you consider leaping a’ship; particularly if you’re an android with a dodgy component, no fault of your own.

  The exhilaration of flying hasn’t diminished. Hundreds, sometimes thousands of feet above the ground, sometimes with breathing gear. Even today, buffeted and sick with worry about Angela, I get a kick out of it. The mountains of the mind are invisible. Except for that trip to Japan, which turned my mind to Sushi. It’s a big regret that I didn’t travel the world, encounter different cities and cultures. Liz and I had that hunger and curiosity, before life intervened. I could only leaf through magazines and think what could have been. Somehow that desire became lost as we grew apart. My own sense of adventure comes from flying these balloons. They keep me to my commitments. They don’t take me far away from home.

  Liz can be dismissive of my sport. We used to play tennis together. At one time she was a good club player. I can still think of her stretching to the net. She never approved of my weekend vanishing tricks. She knows that I’m happiest at a thousand feet in a picnic basket. In her view it’s a way to avoid real life. That’s her critique of the sport. But then it’s my look-out. Ironically she’s the person I’m most eager to avoid these days. Not exactly the love of my life, but the alien with hostile green eyes, that she has turned in to, in contemporary times. Previously I was happy to come back down to earth, to hitch up with her again. So to speak, my clear-eyed lady of the lowlands.

  High altitude was more appealing after marriage break-up. In this era Liz doesn’t care what I do. In our youth we were regarded as the stellar couple; we were watched and followed by friends and associates, even when we ended up in a domestic horror of premature nappy pins, while cooped up in a fungi box. Our love was written up in the stars until we crossed each other. This was the biggest hangover in history and nobody else was invited. She can hardly bring herself to look at me, but I’ll never see sixty. As long as she can write a deepest sympathy card. That’ll be the last bouquet I ever get from her.