‘It’s his 18th birthday soon,’ said his mother in a low voice. ‘He deserves something special.’
‘What can we give him that’s special?’ No reproach coloured her husband’s reply; he stated a simple fact. ‘We don’t have the money for a car or a motorbike. What we can afford he most likely wouldn’t want.’ Bob shook his head. ‘Sure, he should have a special gift, but I just don’t know what we can do about it.’
‘He’d love an aeroplane,’ she said, watching Bob’s profile with amusement, waiting for his reaction.
He continued to stare across the yard. At length he spoke. ‘For better or worse, Mary, I promised you that before God. But I have to tell you, I struck a private deal with the padre; I can send you back as soon as you go mad.’ He turned on the bench to face her. ‘Unless you’ve got a stack of money you’ve forgotten to tell me about?’
‘Listen to me’ – she turned to match his posture, taking his hands in hers – ‘an aeroplane costs an awful lot of money.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He smiled at the game.
‘And we only have a little.’
‘Amen.’
‘So’ – she paused, looking at her husband with mock concern – ‘this is the math: instead of spending a lot of money on a whole aeroplane, we spend the money we have on a piece of an aeroplane.’
Bob’s face dropped into genuine confusion. ‘You mean, like, a wheel?’
‘No, I mean a seat.’
Gerry raised his head from the tractor’s bowels to watch his father drive their pick-up truck out through the yard gate and down the dirt road, a wisp of brown dust spiralling in his wake. He stood staring for a moment, then turned to look at his mother on the porch. She flashed a broad smile and waved at him. He raised a grimy hand in response. His eyes dropped once more to the stripped carburettor and in moments he became engrossed in his work.
28th June, 1930
Gerry’s birthday fell on a Saturday. He woke early and dressed in his overalls. Padding to the breakfast table he walked in to a lusty rendition of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ and a plate of ham and pancakes. His mother placed a small jug on the table.
‘What’s that?’ Gerry asked.
‘Maple syrup.’
‘Wow, really?’
‘It’s a special day, Gerry.’
Once he’d emptied his plate and coaxed the last drop of syrup from the jug, Gerry walked to the bench by the door and pulled on his work boots.
‘No work today, Tiger,’ his father called across. ‘Go and change out of those overalls, we’re taking the day off to do something special.’
‘Special, sir?’
‘Yes, Gerry,’ his mother announced, ‘we’re going on a picnic down by the river.’
Minutes later the family emerged into the summer sunshine, loading the picnic basket into the truck. Bob fired up the engine and pulled out through the yard gate, accelerating along the hard dirt road.
Approaching the entrance of their neighbour’s farm, Gerry spotted three trucks standing in the drive. He recognised their neighbour and two other families from across the valley. He craned his neck round to see them pull out behind and follow. He turned back as they passed another farm entrance in time to see two more vehicles. The occupants waved as the Donaldsons passed and pulled out to join the procession. So it went over the next few miles. Each farm added one or two vehicles to the convoy, friends and neighbours all heading north.
When they drove past the turn-off to the river, Gerry looked at his mother in confusion. She just smiled and shook her head. His father, whistling at the wheel, simply winked.
****
Max Anderson watched the dust cloud rise into the clear sky as 20 or more vehicles snaked their way towards his airfield and pulled in to the gateway.
Gerry’s jaw sagged open when he caught sight of the aeroplanes lined up by the runway, colours clashing under the bright sunshine.
‘We’ve come to watch the planes taking off,’ Gerry muttered under his breath. He turned to his mother. ‘We’ve come to watch the planes?’
‘More than that,’ his mother said.
‘More?’
‘Everyone helped us to buy you a special present. All of our friends have contributed.’ Her voice wavered. ‘Happy birthday, Gerry.’
The trucks and cars spilled out their occupants around the Donaldson’s vehicle. The air filled with shouts of ‘Happy birthday’, ‘Many happy returns’ and ‘Happy landings’. Gerry climbed out of the truck into a throng of people slapping his back, shaking his hand and saying things into his face he didn’t hear or understand. One face replaced the next as hand after calloused hand pumped his arm.
The coughing blast of an engine blew all other sounds from the air. Gerry’s heart leapt. He squirmed through the crowd to look at the aeroplane. The biplane’s wings sloped backwards on the fat body. Its red and white paint scheme flashed in the sun as the machine vibrated in sympathy with the idling engine. In the rear cockpit sat an engineer in blue overalls, checking the flight controls. Another engineer stood at one wingtip, eyeing the motion of the flaps and ailerons.
Next to the plane stood a man who could only be the pilot. He wore oil-smudged red overalls and his worn leather helmet shone with a smooth patina, disrupted by a dark sweat stain across the forehead. Despite the warm day he wore heavy boots laced high up his calf. From under a bushy white moustache, stained yellow from tobacco smoke, Gerry received his first dazzling smile from Max Anderson.
‘Hello, boy,’ Max shouted, his booming voice shredded by the engine’s roar. ‘We’ll take her up as soon as my mechanic tells me it’s safe.’
Gerry looked beyond the pilot to the plane. His eyes roamed the lines and curves of the machine, committing the moment to memory.
The engine note dropped as the engineer throttled back and the motor slackened to an easy tick-over. The thick wooden propeller became visible as a blur at the nose of the craft.
Max stooped over and talked directly into Gerry’s ear. ‘We’ll take off into the wind and climb away from the airfield until we have the height we need. Then I’ll do some gentle turns and bring us back over the field. When we get where your friends can see us again, I’ll do a loop and we’ll land.
‘If you get nervous at any point and don’t want me to do the loop just clasp your hands on top of your head and I’ll bring her down as quickly and steadily as possible. You’re sitting in the front cockpit but there’s no way we can talk, so remember the signal, hands on top of your head.’ Max slapped him on the back, propelling him the first few steps towards the aircraft.
Gerry felt like a giant crossing the field at Max’s side. He glanced back over his shoulder at the people who’d made this possible as they spread out their picnic blankets like an audience at some vast open-air theatre waiting for the show. He grinned, blowing a kiss to his mother.
By the time they reached the aeroplane the engineer had left the rear cockpit and taken up his position standing by the free wingtip. Max showed Gerry the places on the wing strong enough to support his step and, as Gerry settled into the cockpit, leaned over him to pull the straps tight. He tapped Gerry on the shoulder to get his attention.
This close to the engine Max resorted to shouting. ‘If you need to get out in a hurry, pull the release pin from the buckle. On the floor you’ll find a leather helmet, goggles and gloves. Put them on and keep them on until we’ve landed and the engine is switched off.’
Gerry pulled on the helmet and gloves while Max climbed into the cockpit behind him.
At a signal from Max the chocks bounced away and the craft bumped across the grass. It lacked the solidity of purpose a truck might have, moving instead like a man wearing outsize trousers, waddling from side to side as first one wheel and then the other found a depression in the grass. With each bump the wings waggled with aftershock and Gerry could sense through his buttocks the creaking of the airframe. He had an urge to clasp his hands over his head and stop the whole dangerous adventure
immediately. He glanced out at the engineer walking by the starboard wingtip. The man caught his eye and winked. Gerry smiled back and felt a little better.
They reached the end of the grass runway. The men at the wingtips pushed and pulled to line up the aircraft with the prevailing breeze. The two engineers stepped clear, waving their hands over their heads. Max gunned the engine and the machine rolled forward.
Deafening noise interlaced the blast of wind from the propeller. Gerry bunched his stomach muscles and leaned forward into the acceleration. The plane surged ahead and the wheels bounced and lurched.
The tail bit the wind and lifted, the engine dipped and the horizon appeared. The fuselage yawed to accommodate the air and the bumping lessened as one wheel left the grass. Almost too softly to notice, the machine rediscovered its soul; the second wheel came away from the ground and the bumping stopped. The whole structure of the craft dangled in space as the wings swung into harmony with the airflow.
Gerry craned his neck over the side, awed by the rushing panorama speeding away beneath them. A fence flashed by, then a stand of trees, reaching up as if to claw them from the air. Fear gripped his throat. It wasn’t unreasoned terror, more a calculation of the odds: if something went wrong, he could expect little help from straps, goggles or gloves.
As the aircraft battled for the open sky, the clattering propeller took on an infernal undertone. Gerry eyed the dangerous ground until the rushing slowed and individual features shrank to become part of the landscape, too small to hold any menace in themselves. His fear receded along with the earth.
The plane levelled out, its precocious escape from gravity complete. Gerry gazed up at the sky’s blue bubble and then back to the cockpit. The aircraft felt frail as it bobbed in the wind, dependant on the tenuous cushion of air to keep it high above the hard ground.
Learning to trust the machine, Gerry relaxed. Looking away to the horizon, he thought he could see a perceptible curve. God’s great globe had revealed its humble dimensions to him; the revelation came with an exultant flash. Gerry threw his head back, laughing into the void. Twisting his neck against the straps he looked back at Max, treating him to a fierce grin and an emphatic thumbs-up.
Max grinned back and threw the plane into a steep climbing turn. Most of his first-time flyers sat rigid with faces fixed forward like a passenger in a car’s front seat. But Gerry leaned towards the dropped starboard wing, looking in the direction the plane would go if it side-slipped. Max obliged, sliding away to starboard. Gerry’s head bobbed across his vision, the boy moved to anticipate a climb. Max pulled into a shallow climb, a smile creasing his face.
Judging he’d gained sufficient height, Max banked around to line up with the airfield, now a few miles distant. He throttled back, settling the plane into the drag. Gerry remembered the loop and fingered his straps. Surprised at his nervousness, he resolved to sit on his hands.
Approaching the airfield Max increased the throttle while he dropped the nose to gain speed. Gerry stared straight ahead over the cowling and through the propeller. Their shallow dive took them towards the picnicking group at the edge of the field. He watched in fascination as anonymous shapes resolved themselves into the people he knew. All faces turned up towards the plane; the children jumped up and down waving their arms. For a split second he recognised his mother’s face amongst them, her hand over her mouth in apprehension.
Max threw the craft into the loop. The engine roared in response to the wide-open throttle. Gerry’s mother, the picnic baskets and the waving children dropped from view as the plane lurched into a steep climb. The Hand of God pushed Gerry down into his seat, his neck muscles compressing under the unexpected pressure of unseen forces.
Max backed off the throttle and the engine note dropped. The pressure on Gerry’s shoulders lifted and he hung against his straps. He gasped as the horizon appeared upside down in front of him. Gerry and the Earth hung in unnatural juxtaposition for a long moment before the plane dived into the second half of the loop.
Now Gerry’s vision filled with the flat, broad landscape and his stomach lurched as the plane dropped towards it. The horizon swung down as Max pulled out of the dive and the ground dropped away below the nose, returning heaven and earth to their rightful positions.
Gerry released his held breath and gasped in a great sob of air as the plane roared over the cheering crowd and banked into the wind to land.
The ground rose up below the plane and teased at the wheels. Max flattened out and dropped to stalling speed, the aircraft sinking the last yard onto the grass. The rumbling and shaking returned as the lumbering beast of the air became once more an ensnared prisoner of the ground.
Max brought the plane close to the picnicking crowd. With the engine spluttering to a halt, he applied the parking brakes and the aeroplane became lifeless.
Max pulled off his helmet and goggles and climbed out onto the wing. Gerry made no move. The cooling engine ticked and clanked and still the boy sat rigid in the cockpit. Max put his hand onto Gerry’s shoulder and jumped as the boy convulsed under his touch. Gerry screwed his head round. Seeing the big pilot standing next to him he returned from his trance.
‘Can we do that again?’
5th July, 1930
Bob Donaldson returned from his trip to the store, throwing the mail onto the kitchen table before busying himself with grocery sorting. Mary leafed through the pile. In amongst the regular bills she found a small brown envelope bearing meticulous handwriting, addressed to her by name and marked ‘Private’. Opening the envelope, she tipped the letter towards the window to get more light and read the tiny script with care.
With the groceries stacked in the larder, Bob pulled on his work clothes. He heard his wife gasp and looked up from tying his bootlaces.
‘What is it, honey? Who’s the letter from?’
Mary beckoned him to the table. ‘Come and sit. I’ll read it for you.’
Bob crossed the kitchen, his half-laced boots flapping around his ankles.
Mary looked at him over the top of the letter, eyes sparkling. ‘Ready?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’m ready. Come on, honey, I should be working.’
‘Dear Mrs Donaldson, I hope you don’t mind me writing you this letter. I am writing to test out an idea. A week ago, I gave your son a birthday joy-ride. The boy impressed me very much. He has a natural interest in the planes and the airfield. In short, Mrs Donaldson, I know your boy is needed on the farm for harvest, but I have a job here that could be his if he wanted it at the end of September. It’s just general duties and I couldn’t pay very much at all, but we will feed the boy and’ – Mary looked over the letter at Bob. Without looking back down she finished the sentence – ‘I will teach him to fly.’
The couple looked at each other for long moments.
Bob broke the silence. ‘Who’s gonna’ tell him?’
12th July, 1930
Andrew carried a box of ginger beer into the shop. Placing his load onto the scrubbed wooden floor he took out a bottle, wiping it with a cloth. He didn’t check the bottle for dust; Mr Frost’s rules stated all bottles and tins were to be wiped before they went on the shelves. The face of the shopkeeper loomed into his mind’s eye and Andrew mimicked his shrill tone under his breath:
‘The International Stores must be seen to be on the forefront of cleanliness and good service in order to maintain our pre-eminent position in the race to retail groceries, tinned and fancy goods to the populace at large.’
Andrew placed another gleaming bottle on the shelf and wished the ‘race to retail groceries’ could be a tad more exciting.
Mr Frost came down the back stairs from the office, paused on the bottom tread and, from this elevated position, surveyed his domain. In the last four years Andrew had seen him do this a thousand times. Every time genuine pleasure shone from the old man’s face. Mr Frost caught Andrew’s eye and strode across, smiling.
‘Andrew, my boy,’ he said placing a hand on Andrew
’s shoulder and inspecting the shelf for neatness, ‘well done, good job.’ He paused, sucking his breath over his teeth as if in the throes of making a difficult decision. ‘You know, I think you’re nearly ready to take on the meat counter.’
The hand squeezed Andrew’s shoulder in gentle reassurance before Mr Frost strode off, running a finger along the shelf, checking for dust.
The tinkling shop-bell announced a customer.
‘Good morning, Mr Frost. I must say the tide is high today.’
Mr Frost beamed from behind the till. ‘It is indeed Mrs Burns, exceptionally high, I’d say.’
While shopkeeper and customer regarded the harbour from the shop window, Andrew finished stacking the ginger beer as quickly as he could and escaped to the warehouse to pack the orders for delivery.
3rd September, 1931
Anthony Francis and his son stood in the garden as the sun westered on the late summer day, their bodies settled into the same discomfited posture. The unseasonably warm day beaded sweat on their temples and the stickiness under their suits did nothing to ease the tension.
‘Why does it have to be the RAF, Andrew? Why can’t you be happy where you are?’
The young man remained silent, looking at his father.
‘There’s no money in it, you know,’ the older man said, ‘and no security either. They’re making cuts all over the place, not interested in armies and things these days, what with… with the Great War and everything…’ He trailed off sensing his argument’s weakness.
‘Your mother will miss you, boy.’ He looked into his son’s face again. ‘You’re all she has.’
‘I’m not all she has,’ Andrew countered, ‘she’s got you too.’
‘But I’m not about to mangle myself in one of the government’s blasted new-fangled flying machines.’ His father’s voice didn’t rise, but it hardened.
‘Nor am I, Dad. There’s nothing to say they’ll let me near a plane at all. There’s nothing to say they’ll even let me polish one in my spare time. So don’t worry about me. They’ll give me food and provide my clothes. So what if there’s no money in it, there’s nothing to spend the money on.’
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 2