Walking on Air

by Christina Jones

  Pam flicked at her Sullivanair jacket. ‘See? I told you not everyone is prepared to dance for thrown peanuts.’

  ‘Don’t mention bloody peanuts!’ Jonah groaned, linking another paperclip into his daisy chain, and squinting at her through the loops. ‘Anyway, you always say you’d fly for nothing just for the love of the company – but, yeah, it’s tricky trying to interpret the CV. I thought she sounded perfect.’

  Pam, who had vetted the CVs and drawn up the final shortlist, looked a bit shamefaced. ‘Sorry, Jonah. I had no idea just how bloody perfect she was going to be. She scared me rigid. Maybe we should have stressed in the advert that “will be working with company directors” didn’t actually equate with the boardroom of ICI.’

  Vinny stopped wheelying. ‘Those two were quite disappointing on a physical level too. I hope the third one will be more –’

  Pam snorted. ‘Don’t be so sodding sexist! You can’t expect every woman to look like Estelle.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Jonah laughed. They’d tried really hard for the interviews; Pam was in her stewardess best, and both he and Vinny were wearing their uniforms with the peaked and braided caps placed neatly on the desk, and Jonah had even remembered to iron a shirt. It didn’t seem to have cut much ice so far. The first applicant had answered all their questions promptly, smiled sweetly, asked several quite pertinent questions of her own, and then said she would only be able to work in term time and then only after and up to the school runs. No, there was no question of overtime or weekends. Hadn’t she made that clear in her application letter? She wanted ten till two thirty or nothing, sorry.

  Two down, one to go. Veronica O’Dowd was certainly well qualified, according to her CV, but after the first two interviewees, Jonah wasn’t holding out any hopes.

  ‘Sounds Irish,’ Vinny said wistfully. ‘She should have black hair, blue eyes, perfect skin – oh, and I think we’re about to find out.’

  Jonah stood up and opened the door. Veronica O’Dowd was the same age as his mother, heavily hennaed, and still wreathed in a blue haze from the cigarette she’d obviously just stubbed out. As he ushered her into the office, he heard Pam’s giggle and Vinny’s subsequent groan. He prayed that Veronica hadn’t.

  The interview went like clockwork. Veronica had worked in several similar positions, lived alone, and would be more than happy to fit in with Sullivanair’s antisocial hours. She could, apparently, turn her hand to anything, and was available and quite happy to start as soon as they liked.

  ‘This morning would be brilliant.’ Jonah looked at the mountain of paperwork and unopened letters on Estelle’s desk. ‘Yesterday morning would have been even better.’

  Right then.’ Veronica hung her jacket over the back of the chair and rolled the sleeves of her lacy blouse up to her elbows. ‘If one of you gorgeous boys would like to make me a cup of coffee – plenty of milk, three sugars – I’ll get down to business. Oh, and no one minds if I smoke, do they?’

  The Aviation Incs looked down their haughty noses like Barnaby’s chasers staring over their stable doors. Only Malcolm Bletchley, smiling and waggling his fingers at Jonah from beneath a vast oil painting of Douglas Bader, showed any signs of being human. Jonah fidgeted on his chair at the head of the long table and wished they’d get it over with. He’d left Veronica in the office with Pam and Vinny, going through the day-to-day running of Sullivanair. Estelle, of course, had left reams of notes on everything, all the computer files in order, and a brief, but probably salacious character sketch, containing the likes, dislikes, and foibles of Jonah and Vinny. Jonah was pretty sure that Veronica would cope.

  The oldest Inc made a strange herumphing noise from deep in his throat. Several heads jerked up from what Jonah could only conclude was a post-lunch and pre-prandial doze. It was a very hot afternoon. Still nothing happened. The pile of paper before each of the Incs was being turned grindingly slowly, the vellum rustle just missing the beat of the clock’s second hand as it ticked through the silence.

  Jonah wriggled in his uniform jacket and wished he could take it off. There were no windows open, and the temperature, which was in the eighties outside, had probably reached meltdown in the stuffy boardroom. He presumed because several of the Incs were well into retirement age, their blood was thinner. They were probably all wearing thermal long johns under their three-piece suits.

  They surely couldn’t find anything wrong with the proposals he and Barnaby had put together, could they? The air pageant had been a total success – far more successful than he could have ever believed possible – and the second Shorts and the Skyvan would be delivered in September. He’d already advertised low-cost no-frills air transport for passengers and freight, and had been inundated with replies from people who’d got used to similar services offered by companies like EasyJet and Ryanair. Early-morning business flights to Scotland and Wales, the north, and the south-west; cargo routes promising a same-day delivery; holiday flights to all the popular European destinations at off-peak times, to be run on a railway-type system of buying your ticket at the check-in desk – everything had been applied for, the regulations adhered to, and all OKed by the Civil Aviation Authority.

  Surely this bunch of old farts weren’t going to dash his dreams now and decide to take Aerobatic Archie’s offer of a lump sum to turn Whiteacres into Flying Disney, were they?

  ‘Flight Lieutenant Sullivan –’

  Jonah jumped.

  The oldest Inc was smiling at him, tapping the printed proposal. ‘A very comprehensive document. Most impressive. Thank you. We have all discussed this at great lengths and are agreed that our forebears – the original owners of Whiteacres – would be more than happy to see the airfield developing and prospering in this way. Also, my two retiring colleagues would be delighted to be replaced by yourself and Wing Commander Molton-Kusak. Your service records are exemplary - and your references top-notch. And,’ he cleared his throat, ‘the injection of the cash sum mentioned for board level allocation is most satisfactory. ’

  Jonah beamed.

  The Inc stopped smiling. ‘However –’Jonah stopped beaming.

  ‘However, we do have to consider the offer from Squadron Leader Archibald.’

  There was a hushed silence. Jonah stared desperately at the Coulson painting of Spitfires at Dawn on the panelled wall.

  ‘We have decided that we should in fact, interview Squadron Leader Archibald within the next week to discover his intentions. We did actually invite him to attend today but he was unfortunately otherwise engaged.’

  Jonah flinched. Aerobatic Archie was, probably at this very moment, with Claire discussing the hows, whys, and whens of the conception . . .

  ‘Should Squadron Leader Archibald be unable to assure us – as you say – that he will be a hands-on owner, occupied as you allege he will be, with his overseas display team, and that his plans are not to keep the air field working then we Whiteacres Aviation Incorporated – will agree to your proposals wholeheartedly, will appoint yourself and Wing Commander Molton-Kusak to the board in September, and make all the necessary CAA arrangements to enlarge Whiteacres to take in your anticipated Sullivanair fleet.’

  Jonah worked some saliva into his mouth. ‘Thank you. Er – I’m sure that when you have spoken to Aerobatic Ar – I mean, Squadron Leader Archibald, he’ll reaffirm that he will definitely be an absent owner. So, we’ll wait to hear from you, shall we?’

  ‘You will. Oh, and may I say that whatever happens, we will definitely be keeping the Whiteacres Air Pageant as an annual event. Spectacular, my dear boy. Absolutely splendid . . .’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Especially the barnstorming,’ Malcolm Bletchley piped up. ‘Stunning, Jonah. Simply stunning. Miss Pascoe was a revelation . . . and I believe you’ve had further enquiries regarding your wingwalking displays?’

  Jonah nodded. In fact, if he’d taken up every offer for himself, the Stearman and Billie to appear at fetes, shows, air displays, and galas
that had poured into the Sullivanair office since the pageant, they’d be double-booked until Christmas. As it was, he’d turned them all down. What was the point when the future of Sullivanair hung in the balance? What was the point when Claire was about to have his baby? What was the point when he and Billie were hardly speaking?

  He walked out of the office after shaking hands, and ripped off his tie and jacket. It had gone better than he’d hoped. Aerobatic Archie would bow out, he was sure of it, and fortunately he hadn’t had to tell the Incs that Claire had swapped sides – again. He felt the net of responsibility closing in on him. Still, once the Incs kicked out Antony’s proposal, and Sullivanair was expanding happily, and he was on the Whiteacres board, he and Claire and the baby could move to a house with a garden and become a proper family, couldn’t they? Jonah felt suddenly sad. They could, and would, and he’d regret it for the rest of his life . . .

  ‘I must say,’ Antony Archibald looked at Jonah with sorrowful, bloodshot eyes, ‘this has hit me very hard.’

  Jonah, not knowing what to reply, nodded. He could see that Antony had been knocked sideways. Claire obviously couldn’t. She was floating round the functional living room in a long, drifty sundress, every so often pausing to caress the bump of her pregnancy and smile secretively. Jonah knew that she must have seen some actress or other behave in the same simpering way on a soap, and was trying it on for effect. If she’d aimed to break Aerobatic Archie’s heart, she was doing a bloody good job.

  ‘Claire, come and sit down.’ Jonah patted the hard oatmeal sofa. ‘You – er – should be resting.’

  Christ, this was difficult. How did you go about apologising to her lover for impregnating your ex-wife? Jonah exhaled slowly. ‘Antony, I really don’t know what to say. It isn’t –’ He stopped. How could he say it wasn’t what he wanted when it was what he’d got? What he deserved for being a fool. ‘I mean, I know how you feel about Claire, how hard you’ve tried to keep her straight . . . How much you love her. I’m just so sorry.’

  Antony shrugged in a defeated way. All the golden pizzazz that usually surrounded him had disappeared; he looked shrunken and grey. ‘I had no idea that you and Claire were sleeping together.’ He mouthed the words as though they tasted as bad as they sounded. ‘It came as a huge shock to me – as you can imagine. Especially when I assumed that Claire and I were back together in Chantilly. I presume she was already pregnant at that point?’

  Claire nodded happily. ‘Oh, I was. But I didn’t know. It happened in January.’

  Christ! Jonah closed his eyes. He heard Antony’s hiss of breath. ‘January? You and Jonah have been sleeping together all this year?’

  ‘No.’ Jonah snapped his eyes open. ‘Just once. As Claire says, in January. She came to see me at the airfield. She said you had split up again and she was unhappy. We had um – a bit of a set-to and then I brought her back here because I felt guilty, and – er – we . . .’

  ‘Ended up in bed for hours!’ Claire finished gaily. ‘It was lovely. Just like old times, wasn’t it, Jo?’

  ‘Claire!’ He really wanted to throttle her. She was being deliberately cruel now. ‘It was nothing like old times. It was simply a mistake. A huge mistake.’

  Antony stood up. ‘You don’t sound particularly thrilled about this baby.’

  Jonah wanted to laugh. How could he be thrilled? He didn’t love Claire, but he couldn’t say that. Claire and a baby would stifle everything he’d dreamed of. If only this had happened three or four years ago it would have been the most wonderful thing in the world, but now, it was possibly the worst . . . He didn’t answer.

  ‘Of course he is! There’s just been so much to do – and it’s come as a bit of a shock, that’s all. We haven’t even really thought about names, yet, have we, Jo?’ Claire snuggled closer. ‘I thought maybe –’

  ‘Claire!’ Jonah shook her off and edged to the far end of the rock-hard oatmeal. Names? He didn’t want this baby to have a name – it’d be real if it had a name. He looked again at Antony. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a drink?’

  ‘Positive. And will you be remarrying? For the sake of the baby? I presume that’s on the cards?’

  Jonah shook his head slowly. Marriage? God, a year ago he’d have given his right arm to marry Claire again. A year ago, when the memory of Claire kept him awake with the pain, he’d have given everything for the opportunity. But not now. So much had changed. He’d changed. Claire wasn’t his wife any longer. The drugs and the avarice and the life with Antony had turned her into someone he didn’t know – and certainly didn’t like.

  ‘No, well, I mean, it’s not necessary, is it? Not just for the baby . . .’

  Claire moved closer again and linked her arm through his. ‘Don’t look so dour, Jo. Antony will be all right. He’s got his display team and he’ll be travelling all round the world and soon forget me. And we’ll have lovely Whiteacres and Sullivanair and a baby – and we’ll be happy again.’

  Happy? Shit!

  ‘I’m sure you will be.’ Stony-faced, Antony headed towards the hall, then stopped and stared at them both. ‘Naturally, Jonah, this means that my offer of a place on the display team will be withdrawn – for both yourself and Molton-Kusak. And I shan’t be following up my bid to buy Whiteacres either. In fact, I shall only come back to this country when the team is appearing at Farnborough or the RIAT. I shan’t wish you luck either, because it would stick in my craw.’

  ‘No – um –’ He followed Antony to the hall. ‘Look, Antony –’

  ‘Do you love her?’

  God Almighty! Now what was he supposed to say? Jonah made a sort of noncommittal noise in his throat.

  ‘OK, then. I’m not a fool. Just promise me you’ll take care of her. You wanted her back – and now you’ve got her. Goodbye.’

  Jonah flinched as the door slammed shut. That was it. Antony had handed it to him on a plate. He’d got Whiteacres, but he’d also got Claire. It was a hollow victory.

  Two hours later, in the golden diffused light of a perfect summer evening, Jonah drove back to the airfield. He still felt like a complete bastard. Barnaby had telephoned the flat while he and Claire were still arguing. He’d grabbed the car keys and left without telling her where he was going. He hadn’t even told her who the call was from. He hadn’t told her about Veronica replacing Estelle or his meeting with the Incs.

  He changed gear angrily, ramming the car over the speed humps in his temper. He told Claire very little – in fact they rarely talked – except when they discussed what she’d bought that particular day for the baby. He swallowed the lump in his throat. He’d been so bloody reckless. So stupid.

  Why should he have assumed that Claire was on the pill when he’d made love to her? Why couldn’t he have asked and accepted some responsibility? Made sure she didn’t get pregnant? Why couldn’t he have acted like a grown-up instead of an overeager schoolboy? Why the hell had this had to happen?

  Still feeling sorry for himself, he belted along the lane beside the perimeter fence. Barnaby had asked him to meet him, and presumably his Parisian lady, at the warehouses. Jonah didn’t have a clue why, but assumed it was because Barnaby wouldn’t particularly want to introduce his new amour to Jonah in the drop-dead atmosphere of the grim flat. It would hardly make for a cosy foursome. Maybe Barnaby wanted to show her the Stearman. Maybe she was into planes. Maybe . . .

  Jonah screeched to a halt. The Stearman, liveried with the Sullivanair logos, still made him ache with pride. He had no idea why it wasn’t in the shed – perhaps Barnaby was going to take his mademoiselle for a romantic spin and show her the sights from the open cockpit . . . The plane was parked on the concrete outside the units beside the burned-out hatchbacks and the towering purple loosestrife. Barnaby was leaning against the wing, laughing and – Jonah slammed out of the car – there was Billie, looking great in cut-off dungarees and a skimpy white vest and her Timberlands. Her hair was tied up in a tufty knot and she was laughing back at Barnaby.
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br />   He walked towards them. There didn’t seem to be anyone else with them, but, of course, Barnaby’s lady may well be inside.

  ‘Hello!’ Barnaby grinned hugely. ‘Sorry to be so cloak and dagger, Jo, but I wanted it to be a surprise.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be. Hi, Billie.’

  ‘Hi.’

  Jonah looked round the plane. ‘Well, where is she?’

  ‘Who?’ Barnaby was grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘The lady you brought back from Paris.’

  Billie seemed to find this hysterically funny, but valiantly tried to stifle her giggles. Barnaby didn’t. His guffaws rang through the thick balmy silence. ‘She’s here, Jo! Right in front of you!’

  ‘Billie? You’ve been meeting Billie in Paris?’ He couldn’t help it. It was all too much. ‘But you can’t! I mean –’

  ‘Well, I don’t see why not.’ Billie was biting her bps, trying not to laugh out loud. ‘But no, he hasn’t. This is his lady, dumb cluck – the big one right here . . .’

  They both looked in shared amusement at the Stearman. Jonah stared as well. Then stared again . . .

  ‘Jesus! It’s not mine! It’s not, is it?’

  Barnaby shook his head. ‘I took your advice, Jo. I bought her when I went out to Kentucky and flew her home in stages. Got as far as Paris and called in some chums to do the livery. He sighed. ‘I’d hoped to have her ready in time for the air pageant but there was a delay. Still, she’s here now. The second string to the Sullivan Stearman bow.’

  Jonah was totally shell-shocked. ‘But where are you going to hangar her?’

  ‘We’ve just been discussing that,’ Billie said. ‘We’ve decided that I should approach Reuben and ask to take out an additional lease on unit six at the end there. It’s been empty for years but it’s big and will take both the planes. And that way it’ll leave my original warehouse with more storage space for my customers. See,’ she threw him a challenging look, ‘you’re not the only one who wants to expand their business.’