Walking on Air

by Christina Jones

  ‘Cool it. I’m Zia, man. Union meeting, right?’ He shook himself free of Jonah’s hand on his shoulder in a cloud of aromatic dust of doubtful origin. ‘We got problems. Big time.’

  Shit. Whatever was going on, Billie could have chosen a better day for inciting a riot. Or at least a better venue. And where was she anyway?

  ‘Jonah, I’m really sorry about this.’ Billie suddenly appeared from the middle of the scrum and scrambled beneath the Stearman’s wing. ‘They’ll all be gone before you want to fly, I promise. It’s just that we’ve all had letters this morning. We’re being taken over. Definitely. With no mention of honouring our contracts or anything. Just that the leases will be sold at the end of the year and that we will be given further information nearer the time.’ She stopped, looking pretty crestfallen, and shrugged. ‘What about you? Have you heard anything?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not a word. But then, it’s not so immediately personal with me, is it? I suppose the Whiteacres Aviation Incs might just decide to get up off their backsides at some point and tell us that we’re being evicted, too.’ He looked at her and felt deeply sorry. ‘I do sympathise, Billie. It’s a shit, I know, but it might not be the end of all this. Look on the bright side. I – um – don’t suppose the letters say who . . . ?’

  ‘Your ex and her acrobatic lover? No. Nothing.’ She gave a flickering smile. ‘And I know how important today is for you – don’t let our wake spoil it for you. Just give me half an hour or so to sort everyone out, and we’ll all clear out of your way.’

  ‘All of you? I thought you’d stick around for the inaugural flight.’

  She grinned. ‘Yeah, of course I will. With my Timber- lands anchored firmly to the floor!’

  He laughed. ‘And changing the subject slightly, how is your marriage-breaking going?’

  ‘What?’

  Jesus – now what had he said? Billie’s grin had frozen on her face. She looked about as petrified as if she’d just done a stall turn and the engine hadn’t kicked back in. ‘I mean with Sylvia and her obnoxious husband. She’s looking pretty glam so I just assumed that – er – she’d taken your advice and – um – stuck to her principles . . .’

  The colour flooded back into Billie’s face. He could almost sense the relief. ‘Oh, Sylv! Yeah, she’s fine. Still encamped in her tropical paradise and repelling all boarders. Douglas has resorted to daily doses of red roses and billet- doux, but she just dumps them in the bin.’

  ‘Great.’ He was at a bit of a loss. Somewhere in there he’d touched a nerve, but he was damned if he could figure out where. ‘Look, I’ll let you get on with organising your protest or whatever and I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Definitely.’ She was smiling again. Maybe he’d imagined the fear? ‘I’ll have all my extremities crossed for a safe takeoff – and an even safer landing.’

  He watched her marshalling her troops, getting everyone together in her office. She looked so fierce and tiny, he thought. So delicate in the jeans and boots and over-sized sweater. He grinned. About as delicate as lambswool softly concealing barbed wire! Younger than any of them, and newest to this warehousing game, and yet obviously the one they all turned to in times of trouble. And what the hell had that business with Sylvia and Douglas been about? He was sure he hadn’t imagined it. Strange reaction to someone else’s marital problems. Enigmatic lady, Billie Pascoe.

  He wondered momentarily what her background was. Oh, he knew about the farming family and the taxi-driving, but there had to be more. Lots more. He stroked the Stearman’s wing. Poor Billie. He hoped that the takeover wouldn’t mean the end of her enterprise. He’d hate her to be hurt.

  ‘OK. Jo? Up for it?’ Barnaby strode into the shed at that moment, managing to look suave and elegant despite being clad in overalls. ‘I can hardly bloody wait. Christ! What’s going on in here?’

  ‘The Industrial Revolution Mark Two,’ Jonah grinned, delighted to see him. ‘I’ll tell you all about it later. Meantime, we’ve got more pressing things to do . . .’

  Two hours later, the checks completed and with the shed devoid of everyone except himself, Barnaby, Estelle, Vinny and Pam, Jonah looked at his watch. ‘I reckon by the time we’ve pushed her out onto the grass and done the final cockpit run-through, we’ll be right on target.’

  His palms were sweating; there was a thump of excitement beneath his ribs. God, he could do with a drink.

  ‘We’ll need a few more bodies to shove her out of here,’ Barnaby said. ‘All hands on deck so to speak.’

  Vinny, who hadn’t stopped ogling Estelle’s sprayed-on leather outfit since he arrived, suddenly paid attention. ‘Oh, we’ll manage, won’t we? We all look as though we’ve eaten more than our fair share of Weetabix this morning.’

  How, Jonah wondered, Vinny could manage to make this remark sound salacious, he’d never know. Pam, wearing a pink tracksuit and still looking very businesslike even out of her stewardess’s uniform, picked up the nuance and cuffed his ear in a maternal way. ‘Wash your mouth out, Vincent Taylor!’

  Estelle watched the exchange, then raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Some of us may have had more than one Weetabix, Vinny, sweetheart. But others of us, like the little pig who cried all the way home, sadly had none.’ She threw a challenging look across the Stearman at Jonah. ‘Did we, Mr Sullivan, sir?’

  Jonah closed his eyes.

  ‘Really?’ Vinny grinned at her, then at Jonah. ‘Falling down in all areas are we, Jonah? And I thought it was your sole aim in life to run a satisfied company?’

  Estelle flicked back her silver-blonde hair. It slithered forward again in a silky rush. ‘Oh, I’m sure it is. It even says so on the booking sheets: “Sullivanair – your satisfaction guaranteed.” But then satisfaction is so relative, don t you think? And sadly in my experience, rarely mutual.’

  Jonah winced.

  Vinny shrugged. ‘Dunno. You’ve lost me there, darling. I always thought one out of two being satisfied wasn’t bad. Just as long as I’m the one, of course.’

  Bastard. Estelle blew him a kiss. ‘Another chauvinist pilot – and why am I not surprised?’ She turned her pouting mouth to Barnaby. ‘Seeing that Jonah has failed, yet again, in his – oh, let’s say personal takeoff – has he also failed to mention to you that I’d like to sneak a tiny piece of your flying slot?’

  ‘Oh, dear me. Yes, I have. It conveniently slipped my mind.’ Jonah glared. ‘And after that bloody emasculation I’m not going to, either. Tough tit, Estelle. You’ll have to wait until next time.’

  She stared at him for a moment and then laughed. ‘The story of my life with you, sweetie. I’ve been waiting so long for “next time” I’m surprised I haven’t got a preservation order slapped on me.’

  Barnaby, ever the gentleman, gave Jonah a supplicating look, then held out the olive branch to Estelle. ‘I’m quite happy for you take my place, my dear.’

  ‘Over my bloody dead body,’ Jonah growled, well aware of Vinny and Pam exchanging glances. ‘You deserve this, Barnaby. More than anyone.’

  Ignoring Estelle, and still smouldering, Jonah climbed onto the wing and slid into the cockpit. Damn her. He wasn’t going to let her spoil today by washing their dirty linen in public. Bugger all women to hell!

  He ran his eye expertly over the dials on the dashboard and touched the sliding levers for the propeller pitch and the fuel mixture, and shook his head. It was his fault. He knew it was. If only he wasn’t so bloody self-obsessed; if he could only think of other things rather than just the plane and flying; if he’d given some modicum of thought to Estelle . . . He slapped his palm flat on the dashboard. Stupid sod! He’d lost Claire the very same way, hadn’t he?

  ‘Jo. . .’ Barnaby was stretching up into the Stearman. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Fine. Just me being an idiot – as ever. Estelle’s right: even if I’d rather she’d kept it more private. I’m crap at relationships. Truly crap.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ Barnaby said softly. ‘
It’s such a minefield. Look at me – eligible or what – and I haven’t had a lady on my arm, or anywhere else for that matter, for bloody months.’

  Jonah grinned. Him, Barnaby and Vinny. All vastly different. All romantic failures to a man. And the women’s mags always went on and on about female angst. Huh! They didn’t know the damn half of it!

  ‘I’ve found reinforcements!’ Vinny shouted up from the floor. ‘A bit press-ganged, but they’re willing to shove the plane out. Of course, I’ve had to promise that you’ll treat them all to a fish supper and a pint of best apiece in the Aeroclub.’

  From the expressions on the faces of the warehousers it was clear that plane-pushing came into none of their job descriptions. He couldn’t see Billie or Sylvia amongst the ground crew, and Estelle was hanging back looking sulky, but there was no time to ponder, and as he released the foot brakes along with much grunting and groaning from those beneath him, the Stearman started to move.

  Having slid the double doors wide open and rolled back the perimeter fence’s netting, the route was clear. The plane, emerging from the gloom and the artificial strip lighting of the shed into the gauzy freshness of the golden October day, was like a large and spectacular butterfly materialising from a chrysalis. Jonah felt the warmth of the sun on his face, felt every bump of the plane as it lurched across the springy grass, heard the panted curses from the manpower below him. Not long now and everything else would be forgotten. This was what he’d wanted for years; for as long as he could remember. Flying. Proper flying. Open cockpit, helmet, goggles: as close to heaven as it was possible to get this side of dying for it.

  They were out on the pathway now. The hands had stopped pushing; the plane was still. There was no sound other than the gentle rustle of the breeze through the airstrip’s coarse grass. Jonah savoured the silence for a second, then Barnaby hauled himself on to the wing and clasped Jonah’s hand.

  ‘Go for it, Jo. Go for your dream.’

  Jonah went. As Barnaby strapped himself into his front seat harness, he pressed the starter button. The throaty chug of the 450 horsepower sparking into life was the sweetest music in the world. Shaking with excitement, his body throbbing with the pulse of the radial engine, Jonah checked that the dials on the arched dash – the rev counter, slip indicator, altimeter, compass, and clock – were all set correctly and functioning. Air-traffic control gave their clearance. Barnaby turned round in his seat and gave a double thumbs up. Jonah, with a final muttered prayer of thanks, released the brake and turned the Stearman into the wind.

  The engine roar was loud and smooth, immediately overtaken completely by the howl of the nine-foot propeller as its blades rotated ever faster; the sounds blurred with the motion as the power increased and the plane skimmed across the grass. Sixty miles an hour in fifteen seconds. Just over. Still on the ground. Still level . . . The wind rushed over the wings as Jonah pulled back on the joystick. With a punch of exhilaration he felt the wheels lift from the grass.

  They were airborne.

  Climbing steadily, the wind against Jonah’s face, the glint of the sun on the transparent arc of the propeller far ahead, the dip of the twin wings, and all the time, the throaty roar of the engine suffusing his body.

  Settling back in his seat, left hand on the throttle just above his knee to adjust the engine power, he used the stick to guide the Stearman easily upwards. Whiteacres spread out hundreds of feet beneath him as he dipped the wings first left and then right, then, pulling right back on the stick, soared into the sun. The first loop was orgasmic; firing each of his senses in turn as the ground replaced the sky and gravity disintegrated. The second was just as good. Barnaby turned round, his face split with a grin like a melon. God, they were lucky. Jonah felt the Stearman respond to his questions as they climbed even higher, rolling this time, soaring and falling. He wanted to stay there for ever. Never come down. Never.

  For a further fifteen minutes, Jonah swooped and scaled, testing the amazing engineering of the Stearman to its limits. The plane, like a trusted friend, seemed to respond immediately and Jonah knew he’d die rather than give this up. He leaned forward and tapped Barnaby on the shoulder.

  ‘Time to go back?’ he mouthed against the wind.

  Barnaby shook his head. ‘I’ve just touched heaven, Jo. I’m never going back . . .’

  Laughing, Jonah pulled the plane high into the sky again, made a sweeping turn, and dived towards the airstrip. The Stearman roared over the tops of the Retail Village, skimmed the roofs of the industrial unit, and swooshed in towards the grass only feet above the upturned faces of its stunned audience. Rocking from side to side in the crosswind, Jonah executed a hop and skip landing, the wheels butting and skimming, bouncing and gripping, until the tail wheel finally touched base, the plane braking smoothly. The propeller’s circle shimmered and separated as the Stearman cruised to a jaunty halt.

  Christ. Jonah shook from head to foot. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

  Barnaby, removing his helmet and goggles, turned round and clapped him on the shoulder. There were tears in his eyes. ‘Amazing. Absolutely astounding. Jo – I can’t let you have this all to yourself. I’m on the next Concorde to Kentucky to buy one of my own.’

  Unsteadily, Jonah climbed onto the wing. As he jumped down he dashed away his own tears. Whatever happened in his life, no one, nothing, could rob him of this feeling. ‘Tonight we’ll go out and celebrate. Just you and me. I still owe you so much –’

  Barnaby clapped his arm around his shoulder in a gesture of an earth-shattering experience shared and remembered always. ‘Wrong way round, Jo. Wrong way round. You gave me my freedom, remember? And yes, a night out sounds a perfect way to round off an exquisite day.’

  Together they walked back towards the perimeter fence to an uproarious round of applause. Jonah couldn’t switch off his beam. It was like being drunk and high and in love . . . Estelle was standing a little way apart from Vinny and Pam and the others, trying not to look impressed. And there was Billie with Sylvia, her mouth open. And there – oh, holy shit! – there, just inside the wire, was Claire and bloody Aerobatic bloody Archie.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Billie had watched the whole breathtaking flight with her heart in her mouth and her hand clasped tightly in Sylvia’s. Her neck had ached from following the glinting, shimmering silver, purple and green colours as they had dived and tumbled through the sky, not missing a move. The climactic roar of the engine had been a sound felt rather than heard: she’d absorbed every ounce of it from the soles of her Timberlands until it had filled her body. Only when the plane had touched down and bounced to a halt, and the roar of the engine had died away and the transparent circle of the propeller had reconstituted itself into blades, had she finally exhaled.

  She’d blinked back tears of fear and pride and terror and excitement as Jonah and Barnaby had shed their helmets and goggles, leaped from the Stearman and, with arms clasped like something out of Top Gun, had crossed the field to well-deserved applause. Jonah’s momentous achievement had felt like hers. She’d shared so much of the Boeing, watching it grow over the weeks from scrap metal into a plane, and the inaugural flight had been more awesome than she’d ever imagined. God, but he was brave! And talented. And so glamorous.

  ‘Bit of a turn-on, wasn’t it, dear?’ Sylvia’s orange face had literally glowed. ‘All that throbbing power. All that thrusting. And, my God, that boy is simply beautiful . . .’

  He was, Billie had admitted to herself as he’d passed her and grinned in triumph. It had lightened the earlier gloom and uncertainty of the morning considerably. She’d watched as Jonah had ducked beneath the perimeter fence, only just containing her pleasure at the way he was ignoring Estelle. Then she’d seen him falter. Seen his head snap backwards. Watched his shoulders droop as he walked towards the crowd outside her shed. Something had gone wrong . . .

  ‘Who’s that, then?’ Sylvia nudged her. ‘That sexy- looking young baggage?’

  ‘
Estelle, of course.’ Billie sighed. ‘Probably soon to be Mrs Sullivan the second.’

  ‘Not her. I know her. I mean the buxom brunette bursting out of that lemon thing.’

  That lemon thing, Billie reckoned, was the latest creation by Ralph Lauren or someone way out of her own price bracket. The ravishing dark girl poured into it was a stranger. So was the tall tanned man beside her with cropped blond hair and a Robert Redford smile. Whoever they were, they seemed to have just rained on Jonah’s parade.

  ‘I’ve no idea. But Jonah doesn’t look too delighted to see them, does he?’

  Sylvia shook her head. ‘Could be plane spotters after his autograph, I suppose. Groupies are probably the last thing he wants to bother himself with at the moment . . . Well, I guess that’s our excitement over for today then. It’s time I was getting back to my rotunda. What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll wait for the hubbub to die down a bit, then I’ll ring Maynard and Pollock and tell them that we’ve talked it over and we’re all agreed and sticking together. The new owner will have to resort to legal action to get us out. Then

  I thought I’d go and blow my minimal profits on an ancient van that’s for sale in Whiteacres and see if the sign writers can livery it up straight away.’

  Sylvia smiled. ‘You’re a real little trooper, Billie. You’re not going to give in, are you?’

  ‘No I’m damned well not. I like what I’m doing – and I’ve still got four years and eight months left on my first lease. I can’t afford to lose everything now. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep us all in business.’

  Sylvia draped her pashmina loosely round her T-shirted shoulders like a stole over an evening gown. ‘You’ve given me a lot of strength you know, my dear. Not just in fighting off the vultures, but in standing up to Douglas too. My generation were programmed to behave somewhat different from yours. I’m so delighted that you’ve given me the courage I needed.’