Walking on Air

by Christina Jones

  The plane seemed to become a blur, the propeller sliced transparently through the January gloom and the engine’s rumble indicated – even to Billie’s avionically uneducated ears – that takeoff was imminent. Then just as suddenly, everything changed.

  The plane lost speed and slewed sideways, chucking up dust and spray and debris from beneath its fat tyres. Its stubby little legs – Billie was far too distraught to remember the correct term – seemed to be screeching to a halt, and Claire had slumped forward, hanging by one strap of the harness, her head dangling downwards towards the wing.

  Barnaby had shaken her free and was running. Billie, still trembling, ran after him.

  By the time they’d slithered across the grass, the Stearman had stopped and Jonah was out of the cockpit, scrambling onto the wing, lifting Claire’s head, his face ashen. Totally redundant, Billie stood beside the plane, which was radiating as much warmth as Faith’s Aga, watching as Barnaby and Jonah lifted Claire from the upper wing, bypassed the cockpit, and carried her to the ground.

  The cashmere coat had billowed open, the clinging lilac wool dress was rucked up, and Claire’s dark cloudy hair was tangled about her white face like manic corkscrews. Her eyes were still closed but at least she was breathing. Billie, who realised she herself wasn’t, suddenly gasped in a lungful of cold air and gagged.

  Jonah, leaning against the Stearman, cradled Claire in his arms. ‘Claire? Claire, sweetheart? Come on . . . wake up . . . God – I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry . . . I wasn’t going to take off, just belt along the runway. I didn’t mean to frighten you . . . I promise I’ll never hurt you . . . Christ . . .’

  Barnaby was up in the cockpit, fiddling with things, and Billie felt about as out of place as a vegan at McDonald’s. Wondering whether she should just stuff her hands in her pockets and make a sort of casual sauntering exit back towards the warehouses, she started to move away.

  No one, it seemed, noticed. Jonah was still crooning his apologies, Barnaby was still fiddling, and Claire was still comatose. Billie, who knew that she was definitely going to be sick as soon as the terrifying numbness wore off, took one last despairing look. Estelle had been right. Jonah still loved Claire. No man had ever – or would ever – look at her with that sort of naked adoration. He’d pulled his ex-wife against him, brushing her hair away from her face, holding her tenderly as he whispered against her cheek.

  Billie bit her lip and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I’ll – er – go back to the – um – shed, then . . . Make some tea . . . Dig out the brandy . . .’

  Jonah didn’t seem to have heard her. He had his back to her and his face was now buried in Claire’s abundant hair. Barnaby just raised a hand in acknowledgement. Billie, feeling totally superfluous, turned and then stopped. Claire opened her wide-awake eyes over Jonah’s shoulder, looked at Billie with a smile of total triumph, and winked.

  SPRING

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  February had passed in a squall of torrential rain and high winds, rendering anything to do with the Stearman impossible. March had been cold, with unseasonable snow flurries and biting frosts, again curtailing flying. The icy weather also seemed to bring a halt to people wanting to store anything, so the warehouse was merely ticking over. It was with some sense of relief that Billie, flipping the office calendar to April, noticed that the sun was actually shining.

  It had been a strange couple of months. Ever since the Claire incident, Jonah had said very little about the wingwalking. He and Barnaby, and occasionally Estelle, had been in the shed, fine-tuning and tinkering, but more often than not, when Billie had finished for the day and was heading off for Amberley Hill, they’d be sitting around with mugs of coffee, poring over flight charts, old air show brochures, and a rather ancient and tattered map of Whiteacres.

  Everyone just seemed to be itching for milder temperatures so that the planning of the air pageant could get underway. Billie, who was far more worried about her lack of new customers, plus the fact that yet again the new owner of the warehouses had failed to appear, was – beginning not to care too much whether the Whiteacres Air Show ever came to fruition.

  Jonah, after he’d whisked Claire home that January afternoon, hadn’t been seen for at least a week. Barnaby – who had now taken Miranda out four times but sadly not stayed overnight – had said that he thought Jonah was taking a well-earned rest with his family on the Isle of Wight as the Sullivanair flights had all been hit by the weather. Estelle had been less diplomatic.

  ‘Probably taking advantage of the fact that Antony Archibald and his display team are in the Far East and is bonking Claire stupid in some cosy little hideaway.’ Billie had felt this was probably far more likely and had tried not to look jealous. Estelle hadn’t even tried.

  It seemed apparent now that if Jonah had been merely intending to frighten Claire that afternoon, then she’d played him at his own game and scored a resounding victory. Estelle had said she wasn’t in the slightest surprised at Claire’s chicanery, and as she didn’t seem to think that there had been any replies to Jonah’s ‘be a barnstormer’ advert, they might end up with Claire tied to the Art Scholl rig on the Stearman for the air pageant after all.

  ‘She’ll look like someone’s slung a duvet out to dry,’ Estelle had said disparagingly, ‘but if Jonah’s happy with that, then none of us will make him change his mind.’

  ‘Don’t you want to volunteer your services?’ Billie had paused in the middle of the latest quarterly return for Maynard and Pollock, which Estelle had been overseeing. ‘You’d look just right standing on the wing, waving.’

  ‘I haven’t even been asked.’ Estelle had pushed the pile of forms away, the set of her elegant shoulders beneath the denim jacket speaking volumes. ‘What about you?’

  ‘God, no! I mean, I tested the rig in here on the ground, of course, just to make sure they’d fastened it properly – but up in the air? Never on your life! I saw what it did to Claire – even before she pretended to be petrified, I mean – and they hadn’t even taken off!’

  Estelle had grinned at her then, and both relishing the mental picture again, they’d poured more coffee and started on the last bit of the returns; and within minutes wingwalking was the last thing on either of their minds.

  Therefore, on the following Sunday morning, when Billie was up just after six, stumbling into the kitchen in her Winnie-the-Poohs and tufty hair, and feeling more than a little apprehensive, it came as quite a shock. Whatever other completely insane things she’d done in her life she reckoned that this had to take the biscuit. Jonah’s phone call the previous evening had come completely out of the blue.

  ‘We’ve only got eight weeks until the pageant, and this is the first decent weather we’ve had,’ he’d said cheerfully down the phone. ‘I’d really appreciate it if you could just give me a hand.’

  Billie, who’d been trying hard not to watch Match of the Day and was eating a Madras takeout from the Dil Raj, wearing her pyjamas and stretched out in solitary and sluttish splendour on the sofa, had choked on a piece of green pepper. ‘I’m not doing what Claire did, so forget it.’ She’d winced, remembering that Jonah’s recollections of what Claire had done were probably more likely linked to bedroom gymnastics than aerobatics.

  He laughed. ‘I’m not expecting you to. It’s just that we’ve got so far behind schedule, and the airfield is clear with it being Sunday morning, and I thought you might like to help.’

  ‘What about Estelle? Why don’t you ask her to do it?’

  ‘Estelle’s in Luton for the weekend.’

  Billie had raised her eyebrows and chased pilau rice round her plate and switched off the television just as they were announcing the Premiership’s blue-riband FA Cup semi-final match. Luton? Again? So, Estelle had found a Jonah-replacement, had she?

  Then she’d scoffed at Jonah, told him to get lost, forget it, find some other mug, but he’d interrupted the negatives and said it was only a test run again – like she’d done
before. ‘Oh, right. Just on the ground, you mean? Motionless?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Jonah had said. ‘And then maybe – if you’re OK with it – just a quick pootle across the grass strip to see how it feels. To see how the rig stands up.’

  ‘Still on the ground?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘And if we pootled, I’d be strapped on and you wouldn’t go above twenty miles an hour?’

  ‘Yes, of course, and no, I won’t.’

  ‘OK –’ Billie had mumbled because her mouth was crammed with chicken. ‘If we’re all going to muck in to save Whiteacres I really shouldn’t be such a wimp. After all, it won’t be like it’s flying or anything, will it?’

  So, here she was, on her one day of rest, feeling as apprehensive as she had on the morning of her driving test, with the chicken Madras still rumbling uncomfortably somewhere in her intestines.

  Miranda, who had recently reverted to type and was now back to obscure hair dyes and the full Morticia Adams eye make-up, unlocked the front door and drifted into the kitchen. Her hair was in vibrant pink corkscrews, her jeans held up by a strange belt, and her T-shirt on inside out.

  ‘Oh, doll – you’re a lifesaver! If that’s coffee make mine strong and black – and what the hell are you doing up before lunchtime on a Sunday?’

  ‘I’m going to work.’ Billie poured two mugs of coffee. ‘What’s your excuse?’

  ‘I’ve – um – just got home.’

  Billie turned away, nursing her mug.

  ‘Billie . . .’ Miranda sighed. ‘Billie, I just wish –’

  ‘Don’t.’ Billie shook her head. ‘As long as you don’t say anything then I don’t have to think about it. I hate the man –’

  ‘Excuse me. Can we just get one thing straight? He may well have been your boss at one time – but right now he’s my lover – and my friend. I’d rather you didn’t trash him, OK?’

  Billie blinked. Miranda hadn’t raised her voice on the Reuben issue since Christmas. Things must be dead serious. Still, she really didn’t want to fall out over someone as reptilian as Reuben. ‘Yeah. Sorry . . . You must just see a totally different side to him than I ever did.’

  ‘Oh, I do, doll.’ Miranda sank her face towards the coffee steam. ‘I just don’t know why you think he’s so cranky.’

  ‘Because he was. At least with me. He’s manipulative and scary. He’s a control freak. It was just as though, because he knew . . .’ She stopped. Miranda didn’t know what Reuben knew. Miranda was never going to know.

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘Oh, you know – that I was desperate for a job when I started working for him,’ Billie improvised wildly. ‘Still, I don’t any more – and if you like him then that’s your business, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Miranda nodded, looking a bit more cheerful.

  And you really have got him all wrong. You should see what he’s done to Bazooka’s. It’s magic. Caught Offside will be the best club for miles. You’ll come to the opening night, won’t you?’

  ‘Will you ever speak to me again if I don’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, it’s a difficult choice. . . Billie grinned. ‘No, of course I’ll be there. For you though – not him. And does this regular staying over at Reuben’s mean that you definitely no longer have the hots for Jonah?’

  Miranda nodded. Billie noticed that she was only wearing one false eyelash. She speculated vaguely on the whereabouts of its twin. She hoped it had got lodged somewhere extremely painful in Reuben and was giving him gyp at that very moment.

  ‘Jonah’s totally gorgeous, of course.’ Miranda yawned. ‘But off limits – and I suppose it was just as well I found out about him before I made a complete prat of myself. Have you seen much of the women in his life lately?’

  ‘Not Claire, thank God, not since she ballsed-up the wingwalking. Although I’m sure Jonah’s seen plenty. Estelle and I spend quite a bit of time together, funnily enough. I still feel like a scruffy kid when she’s around, but she’s actually a really nice person. Jonah must be mad not to –’

  ‘Jonah’s a businessman,’ Miranda sucked in a dizzying amount of caffeine. ‘And if Claire’s the one involved in the takeover it’d make sense to pillow-talk her into submission, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘God knows, but I think you’ve spent too much time with Reuben – that sounds exactly like one of his edicts! Anyway, Claire left Jonah, and apparently Antony Archibald is a fairish replacement, so I think she’s a bit of a scheming cow too. Billie said tartly, not wanting to waste any sympathy on the woman who was hellbent on destroying her livelihood.

  She moved away towards her bedroom. There was still the dilemma of what to wear. It was something Cosmo didn’t touch on – the right outfit for being strapped on top of an aeroplane.

  ‘Billie . . .’

  She turned round. Miranda was busy peeling off the lone eyelash and not looking at her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘About Reuben . . . Ah! Got it! That’s better . . .’ Miranda dropped the eyelash on the draining board and blinked wildly. ‘No, listen, doll – I do need to know what went on with you two. It’s important. I can’t, well, commit myself until I know if . . .’

  Billie laughed bitterly. ‘If we had a fling, you mean? Not a chance. God, how many times do you need to be told? And anyway – er – have you asked him?’

  ‘Course I have. He says there was nothing between you, too. He just says he was looking out for you, that’s all.’

  Bloody funny way of doing it, Billie thought. Moral and emotional blackmail, threats, harassment. She’d hate to see what Reuben could do to someone he really disliked. Still, if that’s all he’d told Miranda and she believed him, then that was fine.

  ‘Well, there you are. He was being kind to me and I must have completely misinterpreted his motives, mustn’t I? Now I’ m going to get dressed, and if you’re going back to bed to sleep off the carnal excesses of Slimeball Wainwright could you remember to switch the water heater on this afternoon? Ta.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘Anyway, what does Reuben reckon to your dalliance with Barnaby? Have you told him?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Me and Reuben tell each other everything – well, almost. He says that as Barnaby’s a customer, and wealthy, and has contacts, I should keep seeing him and treat them as business meetings.’ She managed to look slightly embarrassed. ‘1 even get to keep the receipts, though Barnaby pays. Reuben says I might as well make the meals tax-deductible.’

  Does he indeed? Billie thought. She wondered how Barnaby would feel about it if he knew. She somehow sensed that Barnaby saw his dates with Miranda as something completely different.

  Two hours later, Billie, fastened into the rig on top of the Stearman in the warehouse having executed the backbreaking manoeuvres to get there, heard the doors slide open, saw the gentle wash of primrose sunlight swoop across the grey walls, felt the warmth pervade the steely chill.

  ‘I won’t be a moment,’ Jonah’s disembodied voice wavered towards her. ‘I’m just going to dig out reinforcements. I hope your other warehouse chums aren’t members of the Lord’s Day Observance Society. Try not to fall off while I’m gone.’

  She didn’t. Ten minutes later, when Jonah came back with Zia and Sylvia, and Fred ’n’ Dick, and Mike and three of his Guspers cronies, she’d gone through her previous earth-bound routine of waving and dancing and swivelling, and felt pretty chipper about the whole thing.

  ‘Still all right?’ Jonah shouted up. ‘OK then – now we’re going to do the pootling. Hang on tight while we get out of the shed.’

  Billie waved down to the rest of the helpers. Sylvia waved back. The plane moved slightly as Jonah climbed into the cockpit and strapped himself in. Remembering Claire s catastrophe, Billie felt all her earlier bravado seeping away. She checked the buckles on her harness and held on for dear life as Jonah released the brakes and the warehousers shouldered and tugged the Stearman through the double doors.

  Billie blink
ed in the brilliant sunlight. They’d stopped moving and gradually the feeling of vertigo was ebbing away. God help anyone who had to stand up here while the plane was off the ground and travelling at 150 miles an hour! God help her too – she still had to pootle.

  ‘Great. . . Jonah’s voice echoed from the depths of the cockpit. ‘Still OK, Billie?’

  ‘Fine. Shaken. Stirred. Scared out of my wits. I’m just fine.’

  Zia peered up at her through a lot of straggly hair. His face ran with rivulets of sweat and he looked as though he was having second thoughts about his poncho. ‘Come on, you had the easy part. You should have been down here pushing, right?’

  Billie leaned out of her harness. ‘And if I was down there pushing, right, we wouldn’t be doing this at all, right? Someone has to be up here to test the rig, right? And as I’m the smallest, right –’

  She thought she heard Jonah laughing. She hoped he’d stop. She didn’t want him veering off course during the pootle.

  ‘Well, I think you’ve done very well, Billie dear,’ Sylvia said loyally. ‘I’ve made a special lunch for afterwards to celebrate. And, of course, we’re all very much looking forward to the next bit.’

  Billie wasn’t. There had to be a lot of difference between standing up here stationary and standing up here and pootling – as Claire had proved.

  Billie,’ Jonah’s voice cut through the doubts, ‘I’m gonna to start her up. The prop wash might come as a bit of a shock, but don’t worry. If at any time at all you feel unsafe or any of the bolts come loose or your harness unbuckles or anything, just lean back and give me the thumbs down and I’ll stop immediately, understand?’

  Billie nodded. Lions and Christians sprang to mind. And Jonah had just thrown up a lot of new terrors. She pulled tentatively on her straps and wriggled in the harness. It all seemed very secure. It was like being on the roof rack of a car, she told herself. Just a piece of luggage. Nothing would happen as long as she stood absolutely still. She twisted round and stuck up her thumb.