Then he saw it: straight ahead, directly in the flight path. A small town, clustered round a church tower. Roads spreading out like a map. Not a light showing, the blackout in perfect order. Henry thought of people asleep in bed, unaware of the Lancaster bomber that was about to crash-land in their midst.
Unless he did something.
Jackson saw it at the same time. ‘Get the nose up!’
‘I’m trying —’
He hauled at the throttles with all his strength, hoping to infuse life into the dying plane. Jackson staggered and fell back against the navigation desk. Henry saw the horizon tilt at a crazy angle. His weight thrown to one side, he had to struggle to keep his seat, bracing himself into it. Someone was shouting at him, but the plane was going into a banking dive he could do nothing to control. They were veering over the scrubland and the beaches, nose down, aiming straight at the sea. Henry heaved at the throttles, knowing the plane couldn’t respond. Hopeless even to think of making a landing now; too late to bail out.
His hands moved uselessly at the controls. The sea tilted up to slam itself at the plane. He knew he couldn’t survive the crash; none of them would.
This is it, then . . . my turn . . .
Unlucky thirteen . . .
He thought of Rusty Dobbs, safe in bed in sick bay. The seconds stretched out while he waited. He thought of Dottie, her hair streaming as she ran to meet him, her special smile that was just for him . . .
Then all his senses exploded in a starburst of dark.
The image on the screen splintered into fragments. Henry heard the impact, heard the fuselage splitting and smashing, saw bits of broken plane bob up on the computer screen. For a moment there was silence, then the picture reformed itself into the starting position, the row of dials, the runway stretching ahead, and the command RELEASE PARKING BRAKES. The sound was of an idling engine, ready to start all over again. Henry looked down at his hands on the keyboard, then round at Grace’s bed and the poster on the wall. It was raining hard outside, battering the sloping window.
‘Strawberry! Pip!’ Grace’s feet were thudding up the stairs. ‘Didn’t you hear me yelling? I’ve called you at least six times. Mum says we’ve got to unplug the computer and come down cos the thunderstorm’s coming nearer.’
Henry glanced dizzily at the window and saw it lit up by a double flash of sheet lightning. Impatient, Grace leaned over to grab the mouse and clicked it several times. The flight simulation screen disappeared and she switched off the computer, then unplugged it from the wall socket. ‘Come on. What’s the matter? You’re not frightened of a bit of lightning, are you?’
‘No.’ Henry got slowly to his feet. He followed Grace down, wondering whether anyone would believe him — whether he believed it himself — if he said that the computer had just shown him what had happened to Henry the Navigator, more than sixty years ago.
FIFTEEN
NEVER
Henry’s dreams, that night, were of black skies and black seas, wounded planes and computer screens.
As soon as he woke up, he realised that he must tell Dottie. He had to tell her everything, about all the strange things he’d been hearing and seeing and dreaming. He had to tell her that Simon’s great-grandfather, Rusty Dobbs, had been Henry’s best friend; that he’d flown with him on twelve missions and had been lucky not to die with him. Most of all, he had to tell her what he knew about Henry the Navigator — that Henry had died bravely.
Dottie needed to know that. There were people alive today, and their children and grandchildren, who didn’t know that they owed their lives to Henry, for ditching the Lancaster in the sea. For losing his own life.
‘No message. Nothing,’ Dottie had said, when she’d told him about Henry.
But Henry the Navigator had left a message, Henry was sure. Bits of it were scattered everywhere, waiting to be pieced together and made into sense. And, Henry felt sure, it was for Dottie, not for him; he was just the messenger.
Today was the end of term, he remembered: a special day at school, his last day ever in Year Six. All the same, he wanted to see Dottie first, or at the very least leave a message that he had something important to tell her later. He was ready early, before Dad had picked up his keys and gone out to the car. ‘See you later, Dad,’ he called, and went along to Pat’s.
Something was different. Henry could tell as soon as Pat opened the door. A quietness hung over the house. The postman came up the path behind him, whistling cheerfully, but he too seemed to realise that something was wrong. He handed over a postcard and two letters and went away in silence.
Pat’s eyes were rimmed with red and she held a crumpled tissue in one hand. She looked at him vaguely, then said, ‘Oh, Henry. We’ve all had a bit of a shock. I’m afraid poor Dottie passed away in her sleep last night.’
Passed away — that meant — something inside Henry gave a sickening leap. ‘No!’ he wanted to shout, but his voice couldn’t get past the choking lump in his throat. He stared at Pat to make sure he hadn’t mistaken her. She blinked rapidly and made a gulping sound. It was so alarming seeing an adult almost crying that Henry turned away and blundered into the open gate.
‘What’s up?’
Dad, about to get into his car, stowed his briefcase inside and came over, and Pat had to explain again.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Dad said, in a quiet, serious voice, putting an arm round Henry’s shoulders.
‘We’ve been half expecting it, but all the same —’Pat said. ‘Come on in for a minute, won’t you?’
They followed her inside without speaking. There was a strange stillness, as if the house knew that something had come to an end. Passed away, Henry thought. He knew it was adult-speak for dead, but it sounded different — as if she’d gone on somewhere else, moved on. Henry couldn’t imagine Dottie dead. He couldn’t take in what it meant.
‘What can I do to help?’ Dad asked.
‘It’s all right,’ Pat said. ‘There’s a lot to do, but I can’t think about it yet. Stay while I make coffee, if you’ve got a few minutes.’
Dad nodded. Pat went into the kitchen to fill the kettle; Dad made a quick call on his mobile to say he’d be a bit late for work. Then he said to Henry, ‘Poor old Dottie. You’ll miss her, won’t you?’
Henry couldn’t speak. What had happened was so big and so strange that it seemed wrong to chat normally. He wondered if Dottie was lying up there in her bed and he had the idea that if he went up and spoke to her she’d suddenly sit up and have a good idea for a Scrabble word. Then he saw the Scrabble box on a corner table, with its lid on, and Dottie’s green knitting rolled up on top of it. It seemed final — the odds and ends of Dottie’s life, tidied up. He tried to swallow and couldn’t.
Pat came back with mugs of coffee and squash for Henry. ‘I called the doctor late last night. I was a bit worried about her, she seemed unconscious rather than asleep, and he arranged for her to be taken straight into hospital. But she passed away without regaining consciousness. John’s there now, getting the forms and things.’
‘Do you mean,’ Henry kept his voice low and respectful, ‘do you mean that after I was here yesterday, when it thundered, she was never awake again?’
‘I don’t think she was. But then —’ Pat made an effort to sound more cheerful — ‘I don’t think she can have known. She just slipped away. It’s what she would have wanted — not lingering for months in hospital. She’d have hated that. Grace is out in the garden,’ she added. ‘Why don’t you go outside with your drink? It’s a bit gloomy for you in here.’
Henry didn’t want to see Grace, but he thought that perhaps Pat wanted him out of the way, so he picked up his glass and went. All he could think was that he’d missed the chance to tell Dottie about Henry’s heroic death. She would never know. Never. Never.
Never was too big a word to fit inside his head. Never started now and went on for always.
It was damp and fresh outside after last night’s storm, the grass sti
ll damp. Grace was kicking a ball about in a half-hearted way, her face tight and scowling. Without even looking at Henry, she said, ‘You know about Aunt Dottie?’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t want to talk about it, not to Grace. She’d probably think it was exciting or say horrible things about dead people and funerals. Then she did look at him, and he saw that she had been crying. Really crying: her eyes were red and her nose swollen, and she looked as if she had a streaming cold. Henry thought that perhaps he ought to cry too, but he couldn’t. He felt shocked, numb, hollow inside, but not tearful. He was still trying to take in the fact that he’d seen Dottie only the day before yesterday, when she’d talked about coming to the fête, and now she wouldn’t be able to go there or anywhere else. Ever.
But she promised, he thought.
There was a gap where Dottie’s garden chair should have been. Henry stared at the empty space and saw Grace looking at it too. The whole place felt different without Dottie.
‘You know that knitting she was always doing?’ Grace said. ‘That green thing? It was for me. She was knitting me a jumper. I didn’t want it, but now I do. I want her to finish it.’ She glared at him. ‘I told Mum — I told her —’ Her voice wobbled. ‘I told her I wouldn’t be seen dead in it.’ A big tear spilled down her face, then another. She wiped them away, then kicked the football hard into the flower bed, where it snapped a big yellow daisy off its stalk.
‘She’s great, Aunt Dottie,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t think I’m daft, wanting to be a pilot. She told me, if I want it bad enough, then I’m bound to do it.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Henry said. ‘She told me, too.’
What about me? he was thinking. She’d said that to Grace and was knitting her a jumper, but what had she left for him? Perhaps she only liked me because I reminded her of the other Henry, he thought, and then: How mean, to think that way about someone who’s only just died.
Grace picked the football out of the flower bed and wiped bits of damp grass and earth off it. ‘I’m going over to see Amber. It’s horrible here. Mum says I don’t have to go to school. Are you going?’
‘Don’t know,’ Henry said; it had suddenly become a day quite unlike any other.
Grace sniffed and wiped her hand across her nose. ‘If you want, in the summer holidays, I’ll teach you to ride properly. With a saddle and everything. Not like last time.’
Henry knew it was the closest she would ever get to saying sorry.
‘If you like,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
It was the closest he could get, too.
SIXTEEN
PROMISE
Lunch was early on Saturday, because Mum was eager not to miss any of the village fête.
‘Are we still going?’ Henry asked. ‘It doesn’t feel right.’
‘Henry,’ Mum said gently, ‘if we could ask Dottie what she wanted you to do, what d’you think she’d say? Would she rather you went to the fête or would she prefer you to hang around indoors feeling miserable?’
Henry thought about it. All yesterday, all today, he’d had a hollow, empty feeling inside, and a sense that something was weighing him down. This can’t be all, he kept thinking. This can’t be all there is! Someone’s here and then gone, leaving nothing. Into his mind came Dottie’s face and her bright eyes looking at him, and her voice saying, ‘You go and have a good time! Don’t let me stop you, just because I’ve gone and died.’
He felt more cheerful. ‘Go to the fête.’
‘Yes, that’s what I think. It won’t make us forget all about Dottie, but it will take our minds off things for a while. And you can’t leave a hole in the relay team, can you?’
The fête was behind the village hall, which was decked with coloured flags. Usually empty apart from football goal-posts, the big field was now crammed with a bouncy castle, a large marquee, various stands and stalls and an agility course for dogs. The running-track had been marked out around the perimeter, roped off. Henry and his parents were among the first to pay their 50ps to go in, but soon the field was crowded with people, some of whom he recognised. There was the postman with his wife, and the lady from the shop, and Elissa with her parents, and Simon with a very bouncy, excitable collie called Pogo. ‘He’s doing dog agility,’ Simon told Henry, ‘and I bet he’ll win — he’s brilliant at it.’ Henry’s mum, noticing the plant stall, veered off in that direction, while Dad chatted to Simon’s dad, who had just the same fox-red hair as Simon, and Simon demonstrated how Pogo would Sit and Stay on command.
A few minutes later Neil arrived, and the three boys and Elissa went into a huddle and talked tactics. Henry was to run third, after Neil and Elissa, leaving Simon, the fastest runner, to do the final lap.
‘What’s the opposition?’ Henry asked, since the others were making the race sound very serious indeed.
‘The Crickford Cheetahs,’ Simon said. ‘They’re the ones we’ve got to beat. That’s Tim, Grace, Tracy and Dean.’
For a second Henry thought he said Cheaters, only he didn’t see how you could cheat in a relay. ‘Grace!’ he echoed. ‘Well, I don’t know if she’s coming, cos —’
‘She’s over there.’ Simon nodded towards the start. There was Grace, in running shorts and trainers, looking very fit and athletic. Like a winner.
‘I didn’t know we needed a team name,’ Elissa said. ‘What’s ours?’
Simon grinned. ‘I’ve entered us as the Hurtling Hens.’
‘The what?’ Henry felt himself beginning to go red; he felt betrayed — and by Simon of all people!
‘The Hurtling Hens. HENS stands for Henry, Elissa, Neil and Simon. Good, isn’t it?’ Simon pretended to be a running hen, with chest puffed out and arms held stiffly like wings, legs pumping up and down on the spot. Henry laughed with the others, relieved to be sharing a Hen joke that was nothing to do with him.
‘Only don’t run like that.’ Neil poked Simon in the ribs. ‘Or we’ll come last by miles!’
The sports began with the under-tens and infants — running races, egg-and-spoon, sack races and three-legged races. Henry began to feel nervous as the time drew nearer for his own event. He tightened the laces on his trainers.
‘Relay teams,’ the loudspeaker said. ‘Competitors go to the start, please.’
The number ones lined up, six of them — Neil, Tracy from Grace’s team and four boys and a girl Henry didn’t know. The others waited by the side of the track, jiggling up and down so that they were ready to run.
‘On your marks . . . get set . . . go!’ shouted the starter, and they were off. Henry felt himself tensed up with eagerness, wanting to run his best, not to let his team down.
Tracy was obviously the weakest runner of the Cheetahs — she was behind almost before they had rounded the first turn — but the other girl pounded strongly ahead, her blond pony-tail flying out behind. By the first changeover, her team — the Ridgeley Rockets — had a clear lead over Neil in second place, but their next runner wasn’t as fast. Elissa, on the second lap for the Hens, had a look of fierce determination that said she was going to catch up or burst a blood vessel in the effort. ‘Go, Lissa!’ Simon yelled.
Henry took his place, hand outstretched ready for the baton. Elissa pounded towards him, all the time gaining on the boy, her small weight seeming to shake the ground. Henry concentrated hard on the baton — mustn’t drop it, mustn’t fumble and waste time! — then gripped it surely in his hand and drove himself forward. ‘Go on, Henry!’ he heard Dad shout from behind the ropes. The Cheetahs’ handover hadn’t been so smooth and now Henry found himself running alongside Tim from Grace’s team, matching him stride for stride, with the Rockets runner a little behind and the others straggling. It would be Simon and Grace in the final lap; the race would be lost if he didn’t keep up.
Henry was straining every muscle, but slowly Tim inched ahead, every stride increasing his lead. Henry felt himself starting to wilt, with nothing more to give. In a second the runner in third place would pass him.
&nbs
p; Then a voice yelled out, quite close, ‘Get a shift on, Henry! Move yourself! You can do it!’
He could have sworn, just for a baffled second, that it was Dottie’s voice, cracked and old, but rising above the shouts of the other spectators. She was cheering, just for him! There was no time to look round to see where she was, but he felt himself moving up a gear, finding an extra burst of energy as his feet pounded the track. Tim gave him a startled look as he drew level. Held his position. Second place wasn’t good enough for the Hens. He wanted to win — win for Dottie.
Simon was waiting, poised, hand stretched out for the baton, Grace next to him almost bursting with impatience. Henry made an extra spurt, found himself overtaking Tim, and even though his lungs felt like bursting, he kept his lead for the final dash. He thrust the baton safely into Simon’s hand, watched him sprint off, and stood by the trackside, hands on his knees, panting, but paying close attention to the last lap. ‘Well done!’ Neil thumped him on the back, and Elissa jumped up and down, saying, ‘That was great. We could win this!’
Simon and Grace were running strongly, Simon keeping his lead; the Rockets, not as good as their name, were in third place, and the other three teams hardly in the race at all. Although Grace had longer legs and was taller, Henry could tell from Simon’s look of set determination that he wasn’t going to let her pass him without a struggle.
‘Run, Si!’
‘Don’t look round! Keep going!’
‘Grace! Grace! Come on, Cheetahs!’
‘Go for it — you’re nearly there!’
It was almost a photo-finish — a few metres more and Grace would have won, but Simon kept up the effort right to the tape, and by sheer willpower managed to keep ahead.
‘Yes! Yes! We did it! We’ve won!’ Elissa shrieked.
‘A very exciting finish there,’ came over the loudspeakers, ‘with the Hurtling Hens just taking first place from the Crickford Cheetahs, but very well run by both teams.’
At the Firefly Gate Page 9
