Walking on Air

by Christina Jones

  Billie hesitated. She was scared of planes. Even rigid ones. She should be going home. She should be jumping into Tigger and Piglet and getting a few hours under the duvet before facing Maynard and Pollock in the morning. She really shouldn’t be hanging around in the shed with someone as glitteringly, dangerously attractive as Jonah Sullivan and playing bloody Biggies. But then again, she’d like to bet Estelle leaped into planes at the drop of a flying helmet.

  ‘OK. But don’t shout if I touch anything vital.’

  ‘I never shout and you won’t. All the controls are in the back – and no,’ he grinned and fielded her next question, ‘I don’t mean that the pilot sits facing the other way. I mean, the plane is flown from the rear of the two seats. Front is for passengers only. Go on, then, up you get.’

  ‘I will when you tell me where the steps are.’

  ‘There aren’t any,’ Jonah patted the Stearman’s lower wing. ‘You just put your foot on here – look, where the treads are – and step up – just be careful not to stand on any other part. The wings are very fragile. They’re made of Irish linen bonded to the ribs, your foot could go right through.’

  Another damned good reason not to be in it when it’s airborne, Billie thought. And his main concern was obviously more for any potential structural damage to the Stearman than the shattering of her fibula. She blinked at the wing. ‘I can’t get my foot up there! It’s eight feet off the ground.’

  ‘Four at the most. Look, grab hold there, lift your leg up, and haul . . . No, both hands . . . There you go!’

  Billie, sweating with exertion and embarrassment, managed to pull herself on to the wing. Jonah was nodding encouragement. ‘See? Piece of cake. Now slide yourself into the cockpit. Put one foot in at a time, yes, stand on the seat and slide your feet forward – oh, but don’t touch the pedals.’

  ‘You said the controls were at the back,’ Billie puffed, inelegantly clambering into the cockpit, sitting down and immediately disappearing from view. ‘You said –’

  ‘The pedals have to be at the front,’ Jonah athletically hauled himself into the matching compartment behind her, ‘because my legs go down each side of your seat to reach them. See?’

  Billie saw. In the depths of the cockpit, Jonah’s long legs appeared on either side of her thighs, his feet resting just short of the pedals beneath her. It was most disconcerting.

  The seat seemed to tip slightly backwards, so that Billie was treated to a view of the upper wing a further three feet above her head – a lot of crisscross struts, and the high-tension wires that seemed to hold the whole plane together. Apart from that there was a tiny glass windscreen, a prototype fuel gauge like a dangling test tube, and absolutely nothing else.

  Billie, who wasn’t comfortable looking at Jonah’s legs, fastened her gaze on the fuel gauge with fierce concentration. ‘You’ve got to be completely mad. This is terrifying. Just sitting here, knowing we’re not going anywhere, is scary enough – but you mean, you actually sit in here – and fly?’

  ‘Loops, rolls, stall turns . . .’ Jonah’s voice sounded wistful from behind her. ‘It’s like – well, literally like nothing on earth. With the rush of the wind and the noise and, oh, I don’t know – the sense of complete irresponsible freedom, I suppose. This is real flying – not cocooned inside something air-conditioned and snug and computerised.’

  Dear God, Billie thought. He probably lances his own boils for fun.

  And – um – your ex-wife? Did she enjoy flying? She wasn’t worried about you or anything?’

  ‘Claire loved it. It was one of the attractions, I think. Married to an RAF pilot probably sounded impossibly glamorous.’

  Billie could think of far more glamorous occupations but felt it wasn’t polite to say so. It seemed very peculiar having a conversation with him when she couldn’t see his face but his answers were practically whispers in her ear. ‘And – er – this Aerobatic Archie bloke, you said he’s a Pilot like you?’

  ‘God, no. Not like me at all. That was the trouble. I was a lowly Flight Lieutenant in RAF Transport Command Claire and I married. I was flying Tristars out of Brize Norton, usually to somewhere millions of miles away like the Falklands. Just long, tedious flights as far as she was concerned, which merely meant weeks of separation to her – but I loved the flying. It was a twenty-four-hour- a-day obsession. Claire got very bored very quickly. No excitement, you see.’

  ‘But she still left you for someone in the same profession?’

  ‘Hardly. Aerobatic Archie is now the team leader in a shit-hot flying display team. Apart from his heroic Tornado exploits in the Gulf, he’s got buckets of money, and a minor title tucked away just waiting to be inherited . . . I simply couldn’t compete with his superstardom.’

  There was a definite wistful note in his voice now, Billie thought, and for a moment she felt sorry for him. Then she remembered Estelle and withdrew her sympathy. ‘Blimey. He’s not in the Red Arrow’s, is he?’

  ‘No, not the Red Arrows, luckily,’ Jonah confirmed in her ear. ‘I’d never have lived that one down. Very similar, though. It involves worldwide travelling, displays in exotic places, and all the hobnobbing that goes with it. The team and their partners are treated like royalty and live in the lap of luxury, which, of course, suits Claire down to the ground. As far as she’s concerned it’s a zillion miles away from an oik in overalls. She used to say that me flying Tristars was just like being married to a bloody taxi-driver . . .’ He stopped. ‘What? What have I said?’

  Billie wriggled her shoulders dismissively, still staring straight ahead through the fretwork. The big leather seat was surprisingly comfortable. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just that before I became a warehouse entrepreneur, I just happened to drive a cab for a living.’

  ‘Oh, shit. Sorry.’

  She wanted to get out but didn’t know how, and with Jonah obviously quite happy to sit having a fantasy-fly behind her she guessed she’d just have to stay put. She thought it might be a good idea to steer the subject away from Claire and Aerobatic Archie – especially if they were intent on destroying her future. ‘Have planes always been an obsession, then?’

  ‘Yeah, since I was a lad. I lived on the Isle of Wight. I used to watch the jets flying overhead, going everywhere but there. Nothing major in the military line ever landed at Bembridge. Aeroplanes were magical and mysterious things that symbolised freedom. I mean, we had to go everywhere by sea. Flying was just the most exciting thing I could imagine. My mum and dad were so proud when I joined the RAF. No one in the family had worked off the island before. My dad has boats. Trips round the bay, bit of shellfish trawling, that sort of thing. My mum looks after other people’s kids.’

  Brave of her, Billie reckoned, thinking of her nephews and nieces and the two new arrivals who would probably start training in infant thuggery as soon as they could walk. She smiled in the darkness. Jonah’s parents sounded nice. Ordinary. Like hers. ‘And are they still happy now? Even though you’re out of the RAF?’

  ‘God, yes – now they think I’m Freddie Laker. Not a great comparison, but there you go . . . that’s parents for you. What about yours?’

  ‘They have a smallholding in Devon. They scrimp and scrape all the time to make ends meet, but they’re dead happy. And I’ve got four brothers – all older – and two sisters-in-law, and six assorted nephews and nieces now, who all still live on the farm and – what’s so funny?

  ‘Four brothers? Four?’ Jonah’s laughter in her ear was incredibly disconcerting. ‘And you ended up with a name like Billie? I’d have thought your parents would have gone for something really girlie for you, like – oh – Fleur or something.’

  ‘Oh, after the first four they’d decided I was a boy practically at conception. William had been chosen immediately. I think when I arrived they were so shocked by my gender that it robbed them of the capability to make any other rational decision for months. Billie was an easy option. Have you got any brothers or sisters?’

&n
bsp; ‘Two younger sisters. Both married. One lives in Ryde, the other in Shanklin. They’re both very –’

  But Billie was destined never to discover anything more about Jonah’s sisters. His mobile phone picked that moment to warble into life.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jonah said, rustling as he answered it. ‘Hello? Oh hi, Estelle. Yeah. I’m in the shed with the Stearman – no Barnaby’s gone back. I’m on my own. What? Join the club. I couldn’t sleep tonight, either. Why don’t you come over . . . ?’

  Billie stood up, deciding that three was even more of a crowd when the third member was Estelle, and levered herself out of the cockpit. Getting out, she decided, was going to be slightly easier than getting in. Making sure she didn’t step on to the delicate sheeting, she scrambled clumsily on to the wing and dropped inelegantly to the ground. Jonah was still whispering sweet nothings into the mobile and hadn’t noticed, so raising her hand in farewell, she gathered up her bits and pieces and headed for the door.

  She shivered as she hurried towards her car. Sylvia s Mini was parked outside her unit and the lights were on in the shed. Billie could just hear Harry Belafonte singing heartbreakingly about scarlet ribbons through the crack in the door. She hoped Douglas would have a very sleepless night.

  Billie pushed the thought of Estelle’s phone call to Jonah out of her mind as she drove the Nova home through the October murk. There were far more important things to consider. And not just Douglas and Sylvia, or Claire-the-ex and Aerobatic Archie, either. She’d actually sat in a plane. A proper plane. A plane with no lid, and no comforts, and no stewardess to hold her hand. OK, so it had been firmly on the ground, but she was very pleased with the achievement.

  The buzz lasted all the way back to Amberley Hill. Mercifully, the flat was in darkness and switching on just the glow-light in the hall she tiptoed towards her bedroom. The pussyfooting was a waste of time. Miranda’s door was wide open. Her room and her bed were both empty.

  Billie, catching sight of her pale reflection in Miranda’s dressing-table mirror, registered two things. Firstly, horribly, it meant that Miranda must be staying the night with Reuben. And secondly and far more horribly, she’d spent the last couple of cosy hours trying to impress Jonah Sullivan that she was a competent, grown-up businesswoman, wearing no make-up, and with tufty hair, and a selection of her brothers’ clothes which made her look about as alluring as a bag lady.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Do we have to go out? Tonight of all nights?’ Stan Pascoe stretched his feet out towards the fire, sinking into the cushiony comfort of the chair. ‘I’m bloody bushed. I’ve had a God-awful day with the kids – they don’t play anything I understand. And much as I love ’em, there were moments this afternoon when I wanted to declare myself a child-free zone. It must be the double generation gap or something. Our five never seemed to have that much energy . . .’

  Faith grinned from the doorway. ‘That’s because when our five were growing up you were only in the house for a pre-dawn breakfast and after-midnight sleep. You worked all through their boisterous period. You never saw them at their worst. Don’t be such an old grouch – you’re hardly into middle age and you’ve spent your whole life working hard, so entertaining four grandchildren for a few hours hardly constitutes penal labour, does it?’

  Stan wriggled even more comfortably into his chair and closed his eyes. ‘As far as I’m concerned the lambing season’s a doddle compared to that lot. They’re adverts for hyperactivity. They didn’t stop – not even to eat. They just overdosed on E numbers on the run.’

  ‘All the more reason for a nice relaxing supper, wouldn’t you say?’

  One eye opened. ‘Ah – yes. One of your mixed grills would go down a treat. On a tray. With a bottle or two . . . And just us and the telly . . .’

  It sounded like heaven. Faith counted to ten under her breath. She couldn’t give in. ‘Just because you’re sinking into an early dotage, doesn’t mean that I don’t occasionally feel like getting into my Jaeger glad rags and –’

  ‘But why tonight?’ Stan opened the second eye and gave an exaggerated yawn. ‘I’d have thought you’d have been wanting to coo over the new arrivals.’

  ‘I’ve cooed aplenty, thanks. And nights at home with new babies is definitely parental territory – definitely not the place for interfering grannies.’ Faith crossed the living room, leaned across the back of the shabby wing chair, and kissed the top of his head. ‘Anyway, I’m damned if I want to cook tonight. And don’t suggest we send out for a takeaway . . . I fancy being pampered.’

  Stan eased himself to his feet. ‘I’ve spent the last thirty-odd years pampering you rotten! Oh, OK then – as long as it’s the Spread Eagle. At least if I fall asleep in my soup there it’s only a few yards to drag me home . . .’

  ‘Er . . .’ Faith stared at the threadbare rug in front of the fire. ‘Actually, it’s Rustique.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Rustique – that French place outside Bideford.’

  Jesus Christ – that’s the other side of the county, and you know I’m a complete foodiephobe. If I’m not being allowed to stay in, why can’t I have one of the Spread Eagle’s steak and kidney pies and a sponge pudding and four pints of beer and –’

  ‘Because it’s a special treat.’ Faith kept her eyes firmly fixed on the rug. ‘A bit of pampering for both of us. To celebrate becoming grandparents again twice over.’

  ‘But it means wearing a tie!’

  ‘It won’t hurt you – Oh, and if you’re intending having a bath you’d better hurry. I’ve booked the table for eight.’

  Rustique was exquisite. Nestling in one of North Devon’s more secret valleys, it had obviously been a farmhouse several centuries previously. And, Faith noticed approvingly, it had been skilfully renovated while still hanging on to much of the original bucolic charm. Someone had resurrected the farmhouse with good taste and a huge amount of money.

  Faith played with her menu – a solid no-nonsense eight pages bound in wine-red leather, which was another plus point: it could have been in italics scrawled on parchment, or ye olde franglais pinned to a wagon wheel, or something. And Rustique’s owners hadn’t gone for gingham tablecloths or guttering candles in bottles or taped Piaf or anything else that could claim to be a hybrid of rural-Devon-meets-Picardy.

  Faith nodded with satisfaction as she gazed round at the practically full restaurant. The plaintive piano playing was muted; the scents of onion and garlic and wine and herbs just piquant enough to tingle the taste buds; the warmth from the scented apple logs a lulling welcome from the evening chill outside. Was this how it had been when Billie had come here, she wondered, in the splendour of autumn? Or had Billie been sent to cover the opening in the full bloom of summer? She wished she could remember.

  Stan, as she’d known he would, had mellowed about the excursion during the journey. Relaxing beside her as she’d belted the Land Rover through the familiar back roads from South to North Devon, alternately joking about her getting social ideas above her station, and worrying out loud about the milk yield of the goats and the cows and the mysterious laying habits of the hens, he’d completely regained his equanimity long before they reached Great Torrington.

  Faith lowered her menu and watched him, his brow furrowed as he studied the closely packed lines, describing food he’d probably rather not eat. She adored him. She was the business-minded partner, definitely the family mediator, always the one whose word was law. The kids had all grown up with ‘you’d better ask your mother’ as the Pascoe family motto. But despite all this, her world revolved around him. Without Stan she’d be useless. Terribly old-fashioned, but there it was. She always felt it was a shame she hadn’t passed on these particular genes to her only daughter.

  She let her eyes roam round the fire-licked walls again, and wondered if she’d unravel Billie’s secrets tonight, almost immediately laughing at the absurdity of the notion. To be honest, even if there were secrets to be discovered, how exactly did she int
end doing it? Who here, two years on, would remember a reporter’s visit from the Devon Argus? Well, she supposed, someone just might – and if she didn’t ask she’d never know.

  Stan leaned back in his chair having already loosened the tie he’d sworn not to wear. ‘Decided?’

  ‘What? Oh, right – the menu . . . no, not yet . . . Concentrate, she told herself, flicking through the pages. Whatever link there might be between Rustique and Billie leaving Devon, it really wouldn’t do to let Stan know the real reason for their visit.

  Maybe it was just a mare’s-nest; maybe it was something left best uncovered; maybe it was absolutely nothing at all. But since her visit to Craigie MacGowan at Willowbridge, Faith was sure that something had happened here to send her daughter on that madcap sprint to start life afresh in London. And that brief sojourn in London had led to her ending up in Amberley Hill.

  Stan spoke suddenly. ‘What did Billie say when you told her about the names?’

  Faith blushed. Even after all these years the telepathy between them still managed to shock her. It wouldn’t do for him to read too much of what was going through her mind, would it? ‘Names? Oh, her new nephew and niece? She said she can’t wait to see them at Christmas – and she thought the names were perfect.’

  ‘She would. She’s as daft as the rest of them. What’s wrong with damned proper names like – oh, I don t know . . . like Robert and David and Elizabeth and Jane, that’s what I want to know?’

  Faith chuckled. Their first four grandchildren were called Lilac, Mungo, Delphi and Thad. The new arrivals were Otis and Sapphire. Stan had become practically explosive when he’d been told.

  ‘I think they wanted them to be different.’

  “There’s different and there’s bloody insane!’ Stan closed his menu with a snap. ‘Poor little buggers’ll have a hell of a time when they start school. Bloody airy-fairy nonsense – and you can order for me, duck. My French stinks. I keep translating everything as rabbit stuffed with goat’s cheese.’