‘Now who is this at this time of night?’ Jack Hansard murmured to himself.
The light from the scooter’s headlamp swung in a wide arc across the flat marsh, illuminating for a brief moment the scurrying night animals, the swooping owl, the rippling grass. The light swung and came full upon Jack Hansard’s dark-coated figure standing beside his landrover. The machine pulled up, paused, turned, the engine whining as the rider opened the throttle, the back wheel skidding in his haste, and Jack’s shout of ‘Hey, wait a minute!’ was drowned as the scooter bounced back over the bridge and sped away back along the coast road towards the town.
‘I bet a pound to a penny that’s our mysterious flare,’ Jack muttered and reached inside the cab of his vehicle for the radio microphone.
Listening to the coastguard’s message, Macready said, ‘I think you could well be right, but we’ll stay here a wee while longer. We’ll go right down as far as Roger Sand and then make our way back up the Deeps and anchor off the Flats until first light. We’ll take another look around then. Over and out.’
The disco music in the Nite-Lite Club was loud, the lights flashing, the small dance floor crowded with gyrating bodies.
‘Not exactly Annabel’s is it?’ Howard murmured.
‘What did you say, Howard?’ Julie shouted above the noise.
‘I said, “ Shall we dance?” ’
Julie nodded and they squeezed on to the edge of the dance floor. In the semi-darkness, in the weird, intermittent lighting, Julie could not see the supercilious expression on Howard’s face.
Anchored in the St Botolphs Deeps, east of the Haven Flats, there were few lights to be seen in the velvety blackness of the night and the only sound was the gentle slapping of the waves and the lulling motion of the boat.
Macready and Fred Douglas stayed on deck whilst the other members of the crew snatched an hour or two of sleep under the covered cockpit in the bows.
‘What d’you reckon, Mac?’ Fred Douglas asked.
Macready’s eyes scanned the dark water towards the marshes. ‘Since Jack’s last message, I think it is a hoaxer, but we’d better stay a while now we are here and be sure.’
Dawn found the crew of the lifeboat stiff and cramped and chilled after what seemed a long night of being able to do very little.
At first light they were pleased to be on the move again.
Still there was nothing and Macready took the lifeboat northeastwards around the Outer Dog’s Head sandbank and towards Saltershaven.
At 0700 hours Breymouth, the coastguard and Macready agreed to call off the search and return to station. The call went out to the launchers for the recovery and the Mary Martha Clamp beached a little after a quarter to eight. Pete Donaldson arrived home a little after ten-thirty.
‘Angie,’ he called as he opened the back door, then he remembered. It was Sunday. She might still be in bed. At that thought, his tiredness fell away and light-footed he sprinted up the stairs and opened the bedroom door and tiptoed in.
The bed was neatly made and turned down, and there was a note pinned to his pillow.
‘Sorry, darling. Mum and Dad need help at the café today. It looks like being very busy. See you tonight. Love A.’
Pete groaned and then grinned ruefully. This Bank Holiday wasn’t going at all the way he and his lovely bride had planned it.
The tiredness washed over him again. He would shower, he decided, have a bite to eat and then a good sleep ready for when Angie came home tonight …
Chapter Nine
Mike Harland cycled out to the airfield at 09.30 on the Sunday morning in great spirits. The weather today was perfect for an attempt at diamond height, which had to be a height gain of approximately five thousand metres, over fifteen thousand feet, during his flight. The local meteorological office had confirmed that the forecast was for moderate conditions with a southwesterly wind of twelve to fifteen knots with a warning that cumulo-nimbus and storms were expected in the afternoon but the air would be unstable only to about thirty thousand feet. Perfect for cloud-flying. The extra lift a storm-cloud would provide was just what he needed.
Mike had completed the three tests for his Gold C in May of this year. Now he was moving on to the diamond class. There would be a distance flight of 500 kilometres, a pre-declared course flight of 300 kilometres; but first Mike wanted the height.
Although he had only had some three hundred hours flying experience he was ambitious. The drive and single-mindedness he applied to his studies overflowed into his leisure time. He approached his gliding with that same dedication—he wanted to be the best. It was as simple as that.
Mike grinned to himself as he leaned his bike against the wall of the hanger and went inside to help bring out the club’s gliders for the day’s flying.
‘Morning, Mike,’ Toby Wingate greeted him. ‘You on winch duty today?’
‘Not likely! I was on it an hour yesterday. I’m going for my diamond today,’ Mike replied, not pausing to talk but making a bee-line for his own personal preference amongst the club’s gliders. This was a Blanik, a silver-and-red Czechoslovakian-built glider, a two-seater with instruments in both the front and rear cockpits. It was used often by the instructors for training, but Mike preferred it to any other sailplane and he wanted it today.
‘Could you lend me your barograph again, Toby mate?’ he shouted from the back of the huge box-like trailer housing the Blanik.
‘I suppose so,’ Toby agreed reluctantly. Mike was accepted by the other club members and admired by them, though perhaps a little grudgingly, for the awards he earned and the subsequent kudos for their club, but they resented his unwillingness to take his turn at the less interesting ground jobs.
‘It’s a perfect day for cloud-flying.’ Mike’s enthusiasm was infectious and Toby could not help responding.
‘It forecasts thunderstorms, you know.’
Mike shrugged. ‘All the better.’
Toby capitulated. ‘I’ll stay by the radio for you if you like, but keep in touch, mind.’
Mike grinned and Toby was won over completely, almost as keen now for him to get the coveted diamond height as Mike was himself. Two more club members, one a girl, joined Toby and Mike to help rig the Blanik and then they hooked the glider on to Toby’s car and he towed it across the grass to the east side of the airfield, whilst Mike and the girl walked one at the end of each wing to keep the sailplane level. As on the previous day they were launching from northeast to southwest into the wind.
Twenty minutes later, Mike was completing the daily inspection of the glider as it stood tipped sideways into the wind, one wing resting on the grass and weighted down.
Mike checked that all the pins were in place, he looked over the seat-belts, the cushions and the seat in the cockpit for tears or splits and then he ran his hand the full length of the fuselage and around the outer edge of both wings checking that there was no damage to the metal skin of the glider. He checked the controls and lastly synchronised his own wrist-watch with the clock in the glider. Then he went towards the ‘box’ to make the necessary arrangements for his flight. The office was where every flight must be recorded and certain badge attempts declared before takeoff, and logs completed; where visiting members must complete a form and pay their fees; where even the club members must pay a launching fee each time. From here, too, Toby would keep in contact with Mike by radio.
The blackboard listing the order of flights for the day had been set up and Toby was writing up the names. Mike Harland was listed as having the third launch of the day in the Blanik. He glanced at his watch. Good, with a bit of luck he’d be airborne before eleven.
Toby set and sealed the barograph, which after Mike’s flight would have to be returned to Toby unopened for him to verify whether Mike had succeeded or failed. But possible failure did not even enter Mike Harland’s mind as he eased his unusually rotund form into the cockpit to begin the more detailed cockpit check. He was wearing two thick sweaters—for with the heig
ht came the cold—and the parachute, a must for cloud flying, strapped to his shoulders weighed about twenty pounds.
With Toby’s help Mike carried out the cockpit check. He paused a moment bringing to mind the aide mémoire CB SIFT CB.
‘Controls,’ he said, for the first C. ‘Full and free movement and working in the correct sense.’
‘Check,’ responded Toby.
‘Ballast—yes, I’m within the limits for the Blanik. Straps,’ he wriggled to ensure that he was securely fastened in, so solidly that he almost felt as if he became part of the sailplane.
‘Instruments—no broken glass and all working correctly and all clearly visible.’ With particular care Mike checked the turn-and-slip indicator which was essential for cloud-flying.
‘Flaps—set for take off. Trim, yes, operating correctly and set for take off.’
‘Check,’ came Toby’s voice.
‘Canopy closed and locked,’ Mike murmured, but he opened the small window at the left-hand side. ‘Brakes,’ he pumped the brakes a couple of times, ‘working—closed and locked.’
Through the small open square of perspex Mike shouted, ‘Right, cable on, please, Toby.’
Toby now stood at the tip of the port wing, supporting it and holding the glider in a level position. He shouted to someone behind him. ‘Nev, can you check Mike’s launching hook, please?’
‘Sure.’
The mechanism for back release and release under tension duly checked Mike waited for clearance from the ‘box.’
As they waited, Toby said, ‘I say, Mike, don’t do what old Bob did yesterday.’ He was grinning.
‘Why, what was that?’ Mike shouted.
‘Landed up at a military airfield in Yorkshire somewhere and was clapped in the guardhouse.’
‘Good Lord, whatever for?’
Toby shrugged. ‘ Standard procedure. Lock you up first and ask questions after.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, it was okay when he explained it all. They were very nice, gave him a cup of tea and all that—afterwards. But it gave him a bit of a jolt at first.’
‘I bet!’
Mike felt the familiar twinge of excitement as he waited for the moment of takeoff. Mentally he went over his preparations once more. The barograph was stowed behind the empty rear cockpit out of Mike’s reach during flight. The 750-litre oxygen system had recently been charged and was unused. Close at hand were a pair of thick gloves, a map and a stop-watch which he would need for dead-reckoning navigation.
Mike was not following a particular course from his map as he would have been doing for a distance flight, but it was vital to have a map in order to avoid prohibited areas in his search for lift. In his enthusiasm it was so easy to forget to read his map when his eyes were scanning the cloud formation overhead which would take him higher and higher …
The signal came that they were ready for another launch and Mike said, ‘All clear above and behind?’
Toby answered, ‘All clear above and behind.’
‘Take up slack,’ Mike requested and raised his index-finger vertically. The huge lights at the end of the caravan flashed a slow on/off signal and Toby swung his left arm backwards and forwards as if marching, until Mike shouted, ‘All out.’ Then Toby’s signal changed to a similar arm movement but this time above his head, and the lights gave a faster intermittent signal.
Mike felt himself being tugged forward and the glider began to move smoothly across the grass, gaining speed. After only a few yards the glider became airborne and began to climb steeply. At twelve hundred feet, Mike released the cable and below him the tiny parachute opened and gently lowered the cable to the ground.
Immediately Mike found a thermal and banking and turning to the right, he began circling, climbing higher and higher, all the while watching the building cumulus above him as a sign of the thermals waiting for him.
He was on his way.
After being airborne for some ten minutes, Mike called Toby up on the radio. ‘Golden Eagle Base, this is Great Awk. Over.’
‘How’s it look?’ Toby wanted to know.
The excitement was evident in Mike’s tone even over the crackling radio. ‘ There’s a promising cumulus to the west with a base of about three thousand feet. Here I go! Out.’
He felt the glider sink a little just before it entered the swirling thermal and then the surge of lift began. Banking and turning to the right, Mike worked the thermal, spiralling up and up at a rate of climb of about eight knots until he reached a height of three thousand feet which was, in fact, cloud base. Just as he was about to leave this thermal, he pulled back on the stick and the nose of the glider came up sharply and with a final sudden thrust upwards the Blanik gained an extra two hundred feet. It was a technique Mike had perfected for himself in his quest for height, but each time it was like a high-speed elevator, causing his stomach to heave into his throat and leaving him with a sensation of nausea. But it was worth it, anything was worth it to get that little bit of extra height.
He straightened out into the wind and soared into the clear air. Ahead was another cumulus, bigger than the last. Finding its core, Mike achieved a smooth climb of some five knots and this time he was able to venture right into the cloud reaching a height of some eight thousand feet. This short cloud climb confirmed that all the blind-flying instruments were working correctly and that Mike himself was not out of practice at this type of flying. He came out of this cloud to continue his search for further thermals. There was nothing at present that would take him much higher than he was already. Now he was losing height and soon he found he had sunk below cloud base which had by this time reached four and a half thousand feet.
‘Blast!’ he muttered and set his instruments for a course heading southwest. It was from this direction that the storm-clouds would come and Mike intended to meet them.
Macready arrived home for a late breakfast just before eleven. Julie—forwarned by telephone—had bacon, egg, sausage and tomatoes frizzling in the pan.
Of Howard Marshall-Smythe—there was no sign.
Julie greeted him. ‘Dad—the Sister from St Botolphs rang about Nigel Miller, is it?’
‘Milner. Aye, how is he?’
‘Out of Intensive Care and in the Children’s Ward and doing nicely.’
‘Aaah,’ Macready gave a long sigh of satisfaction. ‘That’s good news.’ He sat down at the table smiling—a smile that broadened as Julie placed his breakfast in front of him.
‘Mmm, this looks good, hen.’ Between mouthfuls he asked, ‘Any plans for today?’
‘Well, I thought we’d take a picnic out this afternoon if it keeps fine.’
‘The forecast said thunderstorms this afternoon.’
Julie grimaced, ‘Oh well, perhaps we’ll have to think of something else.’
There was silence between them. Macready was thinking about the sailing-dinghy, hoping that they were not thinking of using that, but he could not bring himself to voice his fears, not even to Julie. For the first time in their close relationship there was a constraint between them, caused by Howard.
Was that the reason he couldn’t quite take to the young man as he would like to have done. Macready was honest enough to question his own motives, but could honestly answer that it was not jealousy of the fact that he was her boyfriend and might come between father and daughter. Macready just could not feel easy with Howard. He had known the time would come when there would be another man in her life—he would not have wanted it otherwise—but if only it could have been someone like young Tim perhaps.
Macready cleared his plate, drank his tea and watched in silence as Julie set a breakfast-tray. He noted the careful preparation, the items placed just so, the Sunday paper folded beside the plate.
‘What on earth is that?’ Macready could no longer hold back the words as he saw her pouring an unusual type of breakfast cereal into the bowl on the tray.
‘Muesli—it’s very good for you.’
&nb
sp; Did he detect a hint of defensiveness in her tone? Macready murmured, ‘ Och, you’ll no beat porridge for ya breakfast, hen.’
Julie turned to face him and then Macready was relieved to see the impish humour—so like his own—twinkling in her brown eyes. ‘Och away to yon bed wi’ ye,’ she mimicked him.
Macready chuckled and levered himself up from the chair. ‘Nay—I’m away back to the boathouse. The visitors were beginning to drift in when I came away.’
Concern showed on Julie’s face. ‘Oh Dad, you’ve been out all night. Surely Bert’s there, isn’t he?’
Bert was an elderly, white-haired man who had been a crew member for twenty years and since his retirement had virtually run the souvenirs stall in the boathouse. He knew as much about the history of the Saltershaven lifeboats as Macready and at every launch Bert could be found weaving his way amongst the watchers on the sands, rattling his collecting-box under their noses and recounting the vivid stories of the dramatic rescues he remembered.
The Lifeboat Institution owed a great deal to all those like Bert, the ones who beavered away behind the scenes—the Service was in their blood.
‘Aye,’ Macready replied confidently. ‘Bert will be there and Tim too I expect.’ He cast a sideways glance at his daughter, but she was avoiding his gaze and making a great play of setting the breakfast-tray.
Macready sighed inwardly. ‘Dinner at one?’
‘Er—well—yes. Yes, Dad, of course.’
‘Take care, hen,’ he said as he left by the back door.
‘And you. Dad,’ Julie replied as always.
On the way out to his eight-year-old car, relegated to the kerbside by Howard’s Ferrari Berlinetta Boxer, Macready paused to look over the long, almost rocket-shaped model, its nose pressed up against Macready’s garage door whilst the back end of the boat trailer was only just inside the gateway. His glance ran admiringly, yet without an ounce of envy, over the red car with its huge tyres on the well-known Cromodaras five-spoke wheels. It looked sleek, very powerful and very new. But the personalised number plate—HMS 4—gave no indication of the year of registration. Macready bent to look in the side window. The plump leather bucket seats were in black and between them was a centre console of controls under the driver’s left elbow. On the dashboard Macready could just read the mileage on the clock—four hundred and thirty-one miles. It was this year’s model all right, this month’s in fact.
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